


Loving Days (Belong Together)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst, Cookies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Domesticity, Dubious Consent, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Time, Happy Ending, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Pain, Rain, Reconciliation, Redemption, Rough Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically this turned into an epic story about hurt and pain and redemption. Written for prompt #37 from the Spring McFassy Fest: <i>Rewatched the "not a tender lover" interview and now I'm craving some Mean&Nasty!Fassy. Like doesn't bother with enough(or any) prep; doesn't offer a reach around; pulls out, washes the blood off his dick and is gone type deals.</i> I did ask whether I could give them a happy ending, and was told yes, so please don’t worry! There’re fifteen chapters and an epilogue for a reason!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Overall title, opening, and closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Poor Song”. Chapter title for this first installment from “Countdown".

_baby I'm afraid of a lot of things but_   
_I ain't scared of loving you_   
_and baby I know you're afraid of a lot of things_   
_but don't be scared of love, ‘cause_   
_people will say all kinds of things_   
_but that don't mean a damn to me_   
_'cause all I see is what's in front of me_   
_and that's you_

One: _your love’s gonna count for me/ we’ll count down_

“I’m not gay,” Michael announces.

Since Michael’s proclaiming this while biting James’s left nipple, and simultaneously making very efficient work of both their jeans, James figures that some confusion on his part is understandable, here.

It’s raining, outside, out in the world that isn’t his lamplit hotel room. Earlier, they’d been down in the hotel bar, laughing, in between the thunder of it, the storm that crackles and bursts with breathtaking ferocity through the night. Everyone else’d been there too, of course, unwinding after the too-long day, leaving all the tension behind in jokes and coziness and alcohol and laughter.

James hadn’t been drinking much, because he’d been thinking about the warmth of Michael’s leg pressed up against his where they’d squashed into a corner to make room for Kevin and January. About the way Michael’d run a hand through James’s wet hair, chortling, after they’d run the five feet from the car to the front door of the hotel. The way Michael had stopped laughing, and looked at him with concern, and said, “Your hair is cold,” and yanked off his own coat and tossed it over James’s shoulders.

James had tried to protest, not very hard because Michael’s coat was wonderfully large and hot and scented with skin and rain and sweat and a drifting hint of cigarette smoke, and his hair had been dripping into his eyes, and Michael had shaken his head and muttered something James couldn’t quite hear but that seemed to contain the phrase “god help me” somewhere in the middle.

James had tried not to be insulted by that. He does know he isn’t particularly attractive, and even less so when rain-drenched and shivering, but it hadn’t been exactly companionable of Michael to point out this fact to the world. Still, he’d reasoned, at least he could drip rainwater all over the coat in revenge.

Michael’d gone on to consume an impressive amount of gin, one drink after another in quick succession. James might’ve been imagining it, but he could’ve sworn that Michael ordered another round every time he caught a glimpse of James’s eyes on his.

James hadn’t let himself try to keep up. One, yes, two because Kevin offered, but he’d stopped there. If he let himself end up drunk and happy, let himself relax, he might say something, one of those so many somethings he wants to say, every time he looks at Michael. The things that friends, even good friends, should never, ever say.

 _I want to fall asleep in your coat,_ he’d decided, would probably top that list. Along with _I smile every time you smile_ and _I’ve never felt this way about anyone else and I think I even love your teeth_ and _I like the way you touch me_ and _I think I’d like to know what it would feel like if you touched me more_.

So he very, very carefully hadn’t let himself get drunk. Michael, on the other hand, definitely had.

After a while, as the party grew more raucous, everyone remembering that they’d got the day off tomorrow and the thunder joining in overhead, James’d decided to slip away and head up to his room. Some nights, most nights, he would’ve been right there in the midst of everything, teasing Jennifer and challenging Kevin to extra shots, but not tonight, not faced with the unending patter of the rain and his own relative sobriety and Michael’s seeming determination to end the night passed out in someone else’s bed.

He’d watched Michael laugh, eyes brighter than usual and flushed with alcohol and determinedly not meeting his, and all at once he’d wanted to break something, or cry, or take the gin away and make Michael look at him, just one time, in the hotel bar under the sound of the rain.

He’d made excuses, pushed his way past Jennifer, and left, while Michael was distracted, searching fuzzily for his drink. James had accidentally—and it had been an accident, honestly—knocked the glass onto the floor, as he’d left. Michael plainly hadn’t noticed.

Except Michael had noticed. Had appeared, out of nowhere, while James had been gazing at closed doors and futilely telepathically ordering the elevator to arrive. Had, without a word, followed him into the enclosed metal box, crowded him up against the back wall, and kissed him. Soundly.

James, shocked, astounded, unsure whether to be thrilled or heartbroken—Michael was kissing him, and Michael was so far beyond drunk that, for all James knew, Michael thought his target was Zoe—had given up and kissed him back, because that was all he could do, because he had to, because if this was the only time he could ever have this, he’d take it, because he couldn’t say no.

And now they’re here. In what James had previously considered his rather too luxurious hotel suite, in the bedroom. At the moment it feels very small, full of Michael and the scent of gin. And the rain pounds on the glass of the windows like war drums, like racing heartbeats, or apprehension.

“Really not gay, I never have been, I’ve never wanted, I can’t want this,” Michael says again, and pulls off James’s pants, and the gilded light from the bedside lamp hits his skin, and it should be warm, but it isn’t.

“You’re not—but you do—”

“I don’t,” Michael whispers, and then touches him, one large hand settling on James’s hip, and the other hand wrapped into his hair and pulling him into another kiss, demanding and thorough and scorchingly possessive, Michael’s tongue invading his mouth, licking and tasting and plunging in everywhere.

After a dizzying minute the mouth moves to his throat, at which point James tries to keep talking, because one of them ought to respond to such a blatantly untrue statement. “—you—oh, _wow_ , fuck, do that again—you do want to—”

“I want _you_ ,” Michael growls, and then neither of them has any clothing on and James is being shoved towards the bed. “You, and your damn mouth, and the way you laugh, and the fucking _freckles_ , James, you look so—and I want you under me, I want to be inside you, I want to fuck you so hard you feel me when you sit down, for days—”

“Oh god—”

“Because you always walk around smiling,” Michael says, and pushes him down on the smooth flatness of the sheets, “all the time, even with rain in your hair and water on your face, and you look like a fucking wet kitten—”

“I do not—a _kitten_? Seriously?”

“—and then you smile, and I keep wanting to fuck you senseless whenever you smile, because you look so damn happy, and innocent, and you have no idea what you’re doing to the rest of the fucking world. To me.”

“I—” But that comment gets cut off; Michael’s tugging his legs apart, one hand finding that vulnerable space between them. A long finger presses hard and then thrusts, abruptly, inside him, and James gasps.

His head’s spinning. It’s not from what minimal alcohol he’s had. It’s not even from the suddenness, though that’s bewildering. It’s from the awful realization that this is about to happen, and Michael’s really honestly going to have sex with him, right here and now in his hotel room, and that’s everything James has been fantasizing about, except it isn’t, because his fantasies have never gone like this.

In those fantasies, Michael cares about him. Takes the time to make everything good. Wants everything to be wonderful, for both of them.

But those fantasies dissolve and pop like soap bubbles in the air, fragile and unrecapturable, when Michael’s weight settles atop him, pinning him to the bed.

The rain drums, ceaselessly, on the glass.

“Still not gay,” Michael says, emphatically, “I just need to—I just have to—just this time, this once, it’s not going to mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s about fucking sex and you and your fucking unfair freckles,” and James tries to say something then, because there’s a very important point that he should bring up, but his voice doesn’t want to work. Stupid voice.

He wants to say: wait. He wants to say: actually I’ve never done this before. He wants to say: I thought I wanted you, wanted to discover this with you. Loved you.

He doesn’t get to say anything, because Michael, with no warning and what feels like the bare minimum of prep, not even lube beyond what might be spit and his own wetness, shoves himself forward and _in_ , and James can’t even scream.

It hurts. Like he’s being torn in two. Broken.

Somewhere, back at the beginning of the night, or only some previous lifetime he can’t remember, he’d been excited. He’d wanted Michael to fuck him, had wanted to know what it’d feel like, Michael inside him, around him, holding him.

And now he knows.

“Fuck,” Michael says, the words coming out as short grunts, the puffs of air settling and stinging on James’s naked skin, “you’re so fucking tight, and hot, and you—you did want this, I know you did, I’ve seen you looking at me,” and James can’t say no because that’s all true, and he _has_ been looking, and imagining, and he _had_ been interested, before, but. But.

“I want to come inside you,” Michael tells him, “to fill you up with me, to make you remember me when you walk around smiling in public tomorrow,” and James can’t hold back a sound, then, and even he doesn’t know whether it’s a moan of desire—those words, in that _voice_ —or a cry of pain.

Michael groans, as if in response. Picks up the rhythm. Faster. Harder. Once, or twice, almost certainly by accident, the thrusts reach someplace that almost feels good, a spot that sends sparks through his body when Michael hits it again. James gasps, inadvertently, the second time. When Michael changes angles, not noticing, he tries to move, too, to find that spot again. Michael does notice, this time. Laughs.

“Getting off on this, James? On me? On me fucking you?”

This time he wants to say: I want to. I wanted to. I wanted you to care whether I was. But he doesn’t.

Michael’s very drunk and so palpably angry—with James, with himself, with his own body’s cravings—and there’s that undercurrent of self-loathing—I’m not gay, it doesn’t mean anything, it can’t mean anything—and James doesn’t know what to do, or what to say, to make everything all right again. He’s not sure all right is a relevant term, anymore. For either of them.

But Michael wants him. Needs him; James can hear the desperation in that voice, can seen it in those wintergreen depths when Michael’s eyes land on his, and twist and slide away. It _is_ a need. And James can never refuse to help Michael, when Michael needs him.

He stays very still and doesn’t answer Michael’s question. Michael doesn’t notice that either, just groans something else, a word that might be a name or an expletive or both. And then the hips speed up, slamming into his with bruising force, and the rhythm stutters and falters, reaching that peak.

He can _feel_ Michael coming, inside him, waves of wet heat, and he might be turned on, the rush of it is incredible, but he’s also exhausted and in pain and confused. Too many conflicting sensations, physical and emotional. The aches of unfulfilled desire and the knowledge that Michael will never know, or care, how much James has been wanting his touch. The sun-bright spear of discomfort when Michael sits up and pulls out. The bruises, internal and external.

“Fuck,” Michael says again, and then stumbles into James’s bathroom without asking and James hears water running, Michael trying to wash away everything they’ve just done and erase the memory from his brain.

He lies unmoving in his ruined bed amid crumpled sheets, and doesn’t let himself cry because neither of them will comfort him if he does.

Instead he just waits for Michael to be finished in the bathroom, and then slides off the bed, not looking up, and feels wetness when he moves, and when he tries to clean himself up he realizes that not all of that’s from Michael. And some of it’s red.

He leans against the closest uncaring wall. His hands are shaking. He tells them not to; they don’t listen. Of course not. Nobody’s listening to what James wants, tonight. Why should his own hands be any different?

The door’s still ajar, slightly; he glances out into the bedroom. Michael’s collapsed back onto the bed. He doesn’t seem to be moving, and it’s quite possible that he’s finally passed out. James isn’t certain, at the moment, whether to be relieved by that, or angry, or something else altogether. Probably he _should_ be angry, but mostly he just feels numb.

He finishes cleaning himself up, only wincing occasionally, and then walks, with meticulously measured steps, back out to the bed. Michael hasn’t stirred.

James bites his lip. Takes a deep breath. Leans over to check on him, making sure that Michael’s fine and alive and breathing, too.

Michael needs someone who will make sure he’s fine. Who will care if he isn’t. And that someone, apparently, is James. Even now.

He suspects that, as badly as he’s going to hurt tomorrow, Michael’s going to hurt more, assuming he remembers the night. Michael isn’t a bad person. And he’s clearly conflicted, caught between all the desperations and desires and whatever reasons he has for insisting, in the face of the all-too-physical evidence to the contrary, that he _can’t_ want James.

The rain slackens, briefly, and the wind howls in, chasing it away, out into the interminable night.

He tells himself he’s all right. He tells himself, and the wind, that he’s not hurting _that_ badly. He tells the silent lamplight and the devastated sheets that he can tolerate this amount of pain, if this will somehow be what Michael needs.

It’s cold, in the bedroom, in the aftermath of the storm. He has to walk past the bed to find his clothing. He tries to be as silent as possible.

“Still here?”

Not silent enough. “Yes? Also, go back to sleep. You’re already going to have a fucking awful hangover in the morning.”

“You. You’re still here. Why’re you here?”

James actually has to turn away, for a second, and press a hand to his mouth. He’d always thought that was a cliché, something romance-novel heroines did when overcome by emotion. The emotion part is accurate, he thinks, grimly.

“I’m here because we’re in my room. You’re in my bed. Did you forget that fact?”

“I’m not nice to you,” Michael says, and James honestly can’t tell from the intoxicated and sleep-blurred tone whether Michael is apologizing for that fact, or proud of it, or just pointing out the current state of affairs.

Affairs. Hilarious.

“That’s not true,” he answers, while his heart turns, unobserved, to lead, “you’re nice to me most of the time, that’s why we’re friends, and we are friends, come on, we’ve stolen golf carts and made fun of Kevin’s supervillain helmet together, so that’s why I’m here, I’m here to make sure you don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning or pass out and die in your sleep or something, and I think I’ve got aspirin in my bag if you want it. Now, or, um, in the morning.”

Michael stares at him. Doesn’t blink. But it’s only the intently drunken focus of alcohol and tiredness.

“Go back to sleep,” James says, one more time, and scoops the discarded blanket off the floor and throws it at him. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Michael opens his mouth, closes it, and then closes his eyes, too. Pulls the blanket over himself, onehanded, without looking. Starts breathing deeply, after a minute.

James stands in the doorway until he’s sure that Michael’s asleep, tucks the blanket in again when Michael flops over onto his back and it slips inconsiderately down, and then goes off to spend the final few hours of the night lying painfully on the sympathetically soft cushions of the sofa, staring into the dark and trying very hard not to think about anything at all.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night of chapter one. Michael, waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Header for this section courtesy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Heads Will Roll".

Two: _dripping with alchemy/ shiver, stop shivering/ the glitter’s all wet/ you’re all chrome_

Michael wakes up in a hotel bed that doesn’t want him there. The pillow is too soft, under his head, and the air is cold, vicious miniature daggers poking into his skin. This is probably the fault of the hangover, he decides, though the placing of blame doesn’t help with the sensation in any way. He gets his eyes open, blearily, and spots his own clothing, on the floor, which would seem to imply that he’s been comfortable enough to sleep naked, but he doesn’t recognize the jacket tossed over the closest chair, and those aren’t his sunglasses eying him skeptically from the bedside table.

He blinks. Gazes around the room.

After a while he figures out that the unfamiliarity has a simple cause: he’s not in his own hotel room, or his own bed.

His eyes land, abruptly, on a single fingerless glove, lying desolate on the floor where it’s tumbled off a table and is missing its mate.

He knows those gloves. He knows the hands that fit inside them, solid and happy and exuberant when they sketch expansive gestures in the air.

The thought arrives with the slow precise clarity of shock: I’m in James’s room. In James’s bed. And earlier he’d been in _James_. Oh god.

He’s in James’s bed. With the universe’s worst hangover and a blanket tucked thoughtfully around him. 

He aches in muscles he’s never even known he has, from the unaccustomed exertion and the general lethargy of the alcohol’s morning-after revenge. And his head’s pounding. And someone’s put a blanket on him.

James. James had put the blanket on him. And talked to him. And waited in the doorway until Michael’d fallen asleep; his last memory is of disheveled hair and shortness, fuzzily backlit by the lamp out in the other room.

James isn’t here now.

He looks at his hands. Remembers the sensation of warm skin, against his fingertips. Catches himself rubbing his fingers together, unconsciously.

He doesn’t _feel_ any different, apart from the obvious . He’d thought he’d know something, be more certain, somehow, some way, afterwards. But he’s as confused as he’s always been, around James. If not more so. Also unbelievably, horrifically, hung over, of course. Which doesn’t help the confusion in any way.

He pictures blue eyes and freckles, and wonders, all at once, where James has spent the rest of the night.

That thought gets him out of bed and on his feet, at which point he recalls, again, belatedly, that he’s naked. “Fuck,” he says, out loud, and then winces, because talking makes his head throb. And then finds his clothes, scattered wildly over the floor in inexplicable places, and gets dressed, because that’s something concrete that he can, and ought to, accomplish.

He ventures out of the bedroom. The door hasn’t been closed, not all the way, but he hasn’t been seeing any signs of another person in the suite, either.

The rain has departed, sometime in the night. But the wind has remained, muttering direly around the corners of the windowpane, and James has remained here, too.

He’s curled up on the pitifully small excuse for a sofa. Beneath a spare blanket, which hasn’t come from the bedroom. Maybe James found it in the closet. Michael dimly recalls spotting one, in his own.

The blanket’s drifted downward in the night; James is fully dressed, underneath it. No pillow, only his own hand, long eyelashes resting over delicate skin and shutting out the world. Even his hair looks pale, color leeched away by the grey light of day.

Michael stands there and stares, paralyzed by competing desires. He wants to ask. Wants to know why James is here, fitting himself onto a piece of furniture that barely even deserves the name. Why James is dressed, and what he’s thinking, or dreaming, or remembering about the night.

Why James put a blanket over Michael, in his bed, and cared enough to stay.

But James is completely asleep, not moving at all, and Michael can’t wake him up. And shouldn’t want to know those things, shouldn’t feel this overwhelming need to ask. It’s only sex. He’s not gay. He doesn’t want to be in love with James. He’s _not_ in love with James. Can’t be.

James makes a quiet sound, in his sleep, and turns his head a fraction more toward Michael, as if even amid dreams he knows that Michael’s there. His hair falls into his eyes. Michael’s fingers itch to reach out, to brush it back, to touch that unruly softness one more time.

He all but runs out the door.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James, on set, that same next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter heading from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Skeletons', this time.

Three: _dry your eyes/ frost or flame_

On location. The wind wails, around chairs and tent poles and shivering bodies. James wants to tell it that everything’s okay, but that’d be a lie, so he doesn’t.

Michael had been gone, when he’d awakened. Hadn’t been there to touch him, or apologize, or hear the inadvertent sound he’d made, attempting to sit up.

On some level, he hadn’t expected Michael to remain. On another, lonely, devastated level, he wishes he’d been wrong.

He must’ve been bleeding, again, sometime in the night. He only notices when he peels off his clothing, in preparation for the shower. He notices because he sees it on the fabric, not on his skin; he’s resolutely not looking at his skin. If he does, he might also have to notice the bruises, or his own freckles, and then he’ll hear Michael’s voice, saying those words, in his head.

The heat of the shower helps as much as anything can. He glances at his eyes, in the mirror, after, and they look a little different, maybe, but it’s not something he can put his finger on, and he’s not thinking about fingers being put on anything in any case, and so he gets dressed and skips breakfast because the thought seems like an abstract concept, the idea of nourishment being, at the moment, entirely disconnected from his reality.

Michael’s already on set, so James hops into the waiting car alone, and puts on his best smile for the driver, and commiserates about the buffeting wind and how, yes, it causes terrible headaches, and absolutely, that was indeed some storm, the previous night.

It’s true. It had been.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Michael until the second they see each other. James is clinging to his second cup of coffee and trying to slip into Charles’s skin, someone else’s mentality, as quickly as possible; Michael’s talking to Matthew, and he’s got his back to James, so James spots him first.

The world goes kind of white, and quiet, around him. Even the wind chooses that moment to die down. James hates nature, momentarily, and all its morbid curiosity.

Michael turns around, and looks entirely panicked for a single instant, as if one or both of them might need to turn and flee.

And Matthew is still there too, and all the catering department, eyeing them interestedly, and James is a professional, and a damn good actor, and above all else a good friend. So he says, unerringly casual, “Hey, did you get any coffee this morning, because if you didn’t, don’t worry, it’s perfectly terrible and you didn’t miss anything,” and watches relief spread across Michael’s face like sunrise.

Of course it’s relief. He’s a fool for hoping for anything else.

He grins, and keeps talking, with a cheerful, “…of course not, you probably already knew, they tell you everything before they tell me, do they just like you better?” That last being directed at the catering staff, who of course all laugh and shake their heads, as though the joke is funny.

Michael smiles, cautiously, too. And James says, “All right, can we go be superheroes now?” and they leave the terrible coffee behind, and walk onto the day’s location together, ready to film their next scenes. Still professional. Smiling. They’re being friends. And if James wants to scream or collapse to the ground courtesy of his shattered heart or cry when Charles isn’t supposed to cry, no one will ever, ever, know.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael tells himself to stay away from James. This resolution fails spectacularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter heading this time from "Softshock," by, of course, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Possibly the darkest chapter? Poor boys.

Four: _lips speak louder/ back together/ still it’s a sharp shock/ to your soft side_

Michael resolves, firmly, to stay the hell away from James, after that night. That glorious, disastrous, inexplicable night.

That night is dangerous. James is dangerous. James makes him think things, want things, dream things, that he’s never thought of or wanted or dreamt about having, before.

His resolution crumbles at the first glance of blue eyes, the first lip-lick, James pondering a line and unconsciously beautiful, standing there in the wind.

He doesn’t know what to say, or to do, but James does, because James always does, and he has Michael smiling within five minutes, because that accent and the slow spread of that grin are irresistible. Which, of course, is precisely the problem.

He wants to ask about the night, the blanket, something, some acknowledgement, but he can never find the right words, or the right moment, and if there’s a moment that _might_ be right, James seems to spot it every time before Michael can speak, and starts talking again, distracting him with character motivation or running commentary on the day’s food or the plans for the weekly prank involving Matthew’s office.

Michael’s very sure that this is on purpose. The problem is, it’s also effective: he knows that James doesn’t want to discuss that night, but what he doesn’t know is why.

In all other respects, James acts as though nothing’s changed, and everything’s the same. As if it hasn’t meant anything to him at all.

That has to be an act; the unending flow of words, if not the content, proclaims as much. But James is a damn good actor, and there’re no clues sneaking out to suggest what he might be feeling, underneath.

They are friends, and they go on being friends, because Michael can’t bring himself to stay away after all, not when seeing James is the best part of every day.  But the uneasiness lurks under his skin, like a stubborn itch he can’t scratch. James doesn’t keep secrets. James wants everyone in the world to smile and be friends, and he’s so genuine and honest and open that somehow the world can’t help but play along, swept up in a Scottish-hued voice and sparkling eyes.

But James is keeping something secret, now. The eyes don’t sparkle in quite the same way. And the world might not ever be the same.

The days pass and they stay friends as if that’s all they’ve ever been and Michael grows more and more frustrated, without ever exactly understanding why. He snaps at the ever-present personal assistants, and then has to apologize; he forgets lines, because he’s watching James lean against a wall, just out of frame, waiting for his cue. James runs a hand through his hair and sighs, and Michael walks right past his indicated mark and has to run back and make his entrance again.

The dreams aren’t helping, either. They’re even more vivid than they used to be, now that he has memories, sensations, images, to fill in the details. He loses count of the number of times he wakes up, heart pounding, entire body rigid with need and the vision of ocean-colored eyes and cinnamon-spray freckles in his head.

He sees those eyes, that skin, in the shower, when he’s idly attempting to relieve some of that desire. And then nearly falls over, as the orgasm turns his entire body into fireworks. Not just one time. Many.

This particular morning, he’s running late, because he’s overslept, and he wakes up confused and missing infinitely blue eyes and curving lips, and then has to forgo the shower because he’s _that_ late, and he’s disoriented and hungry and wanting James and not wanting to want James, because he can’t want James, not like that.

He scowls at the emerging daylight, which takes no notice, and throws on the first shirt he finds, and he’s hunting for recalcitrant shoes when there’s a knock at his door.

When he checks, through the awkwardly-placed tiny peephole, it’s James. Of course.

James is balancing coffee and a bagel in one hand, and what looks like a bundle of script pages in the other, and rather impressively managing not to drop anything, even when Michael pulls the door open far too fast.

“Why are you here?” Which, all right, not the most tactful opening he could’ve picked, but he’s still half-hard with baffling need and the mystifying remnants of this morning’s dream, and now James is standing in his doorway and smiling like those dreams made real.

The smile dims, but only marginally, and then returns, as if James has chosen not to let himself be bothered by Michael’s early-morning surliness. “I think I have your scene change notes. For tomorrow. They delivered the envelopes last night, and those were right, but when I opened mine the actual pages had your name on them. So I thought you would need them, and also I brought you breakfast, because I hadn’t seen you downstairs yet and the food was almost gone and—”

Michael reaches out. Pulls him inside. Shoves the food onto the closest flat surface—sparing a second, but only a second, to be grateful that the coffee doesn’t topple over—and pushes him back up against the door and plunges hands under today’s stupidly fuzzy sweater, seeking bare skin and freckles and warmth.

This time James does drop the script pages. They scatter around his feet like fallen leaves, except whiter, and abandoned, and cold.

“Why are you here?” Michael asks again, one hand on James’s hip, and James swallows, eyes wide. “Because I’m your friend and I—”

 “I’m not your friend,” Michael tells him, “I don’t want to be your _friend_ ,” and flicks open the top button of silent jeans, and maybe James says “I know” but Michael can’t really hear anything over the thundering of blood in his ears.

He grabs one wrist. Yanks James into the bedroom. “Strip.”

James glances up at him, briefly, eyes complicatedly and endlessly blue, and then looks down, and tugs the sweater off, over his head. His hair stands up in all directions, after.

Michael’s a little relieved, when James stops looking at him. That ocean-sunshine gaze is too complex, light and water and shifting tides that he doesn’t know how to read.

He doesn’t want complications. He just wants to fuck James. It’s that simple. Has to be.

“Pants,” he demands, “everything,” and James nods and then is suddenly naked, standing there next to the unmade sprawl of Michael’s bed, bare toes curling into the carpet, which brushes pale skin in an attempt to offer comfort.

For some reason Michael finds himself angry, at that. His carpet has no right to judge him. To take James’s side. If there are sides. He’s not certain what those sides might be, especially not when James hasn’t moved or gotten dressed again or run away.

“I want you,” he says, as if James doesn’t know, and James answers, apparently talking to the voiceless carpet, “You can have me.”

And maybe there’s something else he should do or say, then, but the moment feels too huge and fragile for reassurance. If he tries anything at all, they might all shatter into pieces. Even the carpet.

He pushes James face-down over the bed, instead. Loses his own inconvenient clothing as fast as he can. Fits himself between spread thighs, among all the giddy splashes of freckles, red and gold as jewel-dust over white skin.

He doesn’t have any lube, anything to make this easier, anything except himself. He’d never expected to do this again. Had never thought he’d have a second chance. And he still doesn’t know what he’s doing, in so many ways.

He hadn’t known anything that first time, either. He’d just had to have James, in whatever way he could. Had to be inside James, filling him up, claiming all the freckles and the laughter and the kindness as his own. James hadn’t protested—he does recall that, despite the alcohol and subsequent hangover—so presumably that’s the way this is supposed to go.

James is more tense, more tight, than he remembers. He can barely work one finger inside. And he’s impatient, now; he can’t wait, thinking about James under him, around him, opening up for him.

“Will you fucking _relax_ ,” he says, and James makes a sound and then grabs the closest pillow and pulls it in against his face. After a second, through cotton and feathers, whispers, “Lotion?”

“What?”

“You should have…lotion. In the bathroom…”

“Right.” He leaves James on the bed. Breaks a few speed records sprinting into and out of the tiny room. The towels stare at him disapprovingly. He pretends they aren’t there.

The movement is easier, this time. The hotel lotion smells like oranges and spice and the scent soaks into the air, their skin, the sheets. Everywhere. Enveloping them.

He stares at his fingers, disappearing inside James. Himself, opening James up for him. So fucking intimate. It’s a terrible pun. It’s also true. And he _is_ terrified, all at once. He’s having sex with James. With his co-star, with his friend—no matter what he tries to say, James _was_ his friend first, always will be, and the thought of _not_ having James around somewhere in his life makes his heart stutter inside his chest, so he pretends he hasn’t noticed and pushes the fingers in deeper and makes James gasp—and, most importantly, with a man.

_Once_ he could blame on alcohol and that damn smile and those irresistible freckles. But this will be twice, and he’s sober now.

Sober probably isn’t the right word. He’s drunk on the scent of oranges and the sensation of James beneath him, head bowed, hair curling over the bed and the whiteness of the sheets and pillowcases. Intoxicated by the knowledge that he can do this, can have this, can learn the way James feels when Michael takes him and claims him and uses that graceful body.

James makes another small sound as Michael extracts fingers and replaces them with his cock and pushes in, clumsy with need. And then goes very quiet, which if Michael could think about it might be disconcerting because James is never quiet. But he can’t think. There’s only himself and James and the impossibly exquisite sensations engulfing him.

He comes almost embarrassingly fast. No rhythm. No finesse. Just sharp and quick and  unrestrained thrusts. And the release explodes through his entire body like a supernova.

He can hear James breathing, in the stillness, after. Tiny uneven gulps of air.

When he slides out, James trembles everywhere. Stays buried in the pillows.

Michael’s not sure what to do, then. That’s becoming practically normal, though. The ongoing state of his existence. “Um,” he says. “So…we should…clean up?” It’s a question, because evidently his voice isn’t sure what to do, either.

James nods but doesn’t move. Michael says, “Right, so…lotion. That was…a good idea, thank you, that helped,” and when James continues to not move he takes a few steps back and then escapes to the bathroom, away from the weight of all the wordlessness.

He cleans himself up, still shaking inwardly from the intensity. Phenomenal. Spectacular. He’s never imagined he could have orgasms like that. He’s never imagined any of this, except that’s not true, he has, he’s imagined all of it, James under him in bed, blue eyes and pale curves and white sheets.

He pauses. Looks at himself more closely, under the brightness of the bathroom lights. Pinkness? Redness, even? After a panicked second he figures out that it can’t be from _him_ , since it fades and swirls away with the first touch of water, so fast that he begins to doubt whether he’s seen it after all. And James hasn't said anything, didn't tell him to stop; if he'd been--if that'd been from--No. James _would've_ said something. Would've spoken up. Wouldn't he?

Maybe it's normal. Maybe James knows that. Maybe that's why James hasn't said anything.

Maybe he hasn't actually seen anything at all and maybe it’s just the lotion. It is slightly tinted, after all. And so damn persistent; he can’t seem to get the scent out of his skin, even though he tries.

He gives up, after a while. He has no idea how long he’s been, and James probably wants the bathroom. He does remember James wanting to clean up, after the first time, too.

He steps back into the bedroom and realizes that the smaller pile of James-sized clothing is gone and turns toward the door in time to see James open it, not looking back.

“Wait—” The word flies out of its own volition. He doesn’t have any others to follow it.

Miraculously, James stops. There might be a barely audible sigh, and then James turns around, and actually straightens his shoulders, at which point Michael has to mentally compare that to his previous posture and finds himself shocked.

James doesn’t look him in the eye, settling for, as far as Michael can tell, somewhere around his collarbone. “Are you all right? Sorry. I would’ve stayed, if I’d known you wanted me again.”

“I don’t—I mean, I do, I—you know I want you! But not now. I mean not again now. I mean—”

“Okay,” James says. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow night? After we get done with the chess-playing and conversations?”

“I—yes—but you—I thought you wanted to…clean up? Or something?”

“Um,” James says, “I kind of did, I mean, I used the paper towels, in your mini-kitchen. Kitchenette. Whatever they’re called. And I put them in the laundry bag, which you weren’t using, and then in the trash. And I spilled coffee on some other paper towels and put them on top, too, just in case. So, you’re fine.”

“Are you…” He hesitates. Those normally laughing eyes are so flat. Unreadable. The opacity is unnerving. The world isn’t _right_.

He wants to thank James for being so organized, for thinking of those things—he can only imagine the rumors, the fallout, if someone ever figured out what they’d been doing and fed the story to the tabloids—but he can’t quite make himself say the words.

“You didn’t answer me,” James observes, in the general direction of Michael’s belly button, this time. “Are you all right? Do you want to—do you need something else? Anything?”

“I…don’t know.”

James laughs, once. It’s an amused noise, but not a happy one. “Okay. Um, you’ve still got most of the cup of coffee, and I left you the bagel, and I think I’d like to shower now, and we have to be on set in less than an hour. So…see you downstairs?”

“James, you…you could shower here.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t have any clothes here. And I’m not putting these back on after the rest of me is clean. Sorry. I’ll try to…if you want that I’ll be better, um, prepared. Next time.”

“Next time,” Michael echoes, feebly, and James nearly-smiles and opens the door again and closes it and vanishes, so completely that by the time Michael runs after him there’s no trace of weary hair or sapphire eyes or bruised freckles anywhere in the hall.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James only ever asks Michael to stay with him, at night, once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter heading from "Zero," by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. This little section contains what I think is one of the most heartbreaking small moments, but maybe that's just me...Don't worry, though! Happy endings, I swear! That's why this story is so long.

Five: _try and hit the spot/ get to know it in the dark/ get to know it when you’re crying, crying, crying_

James does cry, later. Thank god his suite and Michael’s are on separate floors.

The tears’re so relentless that he can barely see by the time he gets to his door, one floor up, and fumbles his card key out of his pocket. They’re not merely for himself, even though he’s hurting less and he hates that he’s hurting less because he made a suggestion and Michael listened and it helped.

He doesn’t know what he wants. If he’s allowed to want any of this. He wants Michael, and he shouldn’t want Michael. Not now.

He stands under the scalding beat of the shower and wraps his hand around his cock and thinks about that smile, those teeth, the genuine elation when James makes a joke on set and Michael doubles over with laughter, the way Michael’s skin is always warm, radiating heat against his, and he comes, and comes, and he hates himself for that, too.

Because everything still does hurt, even if the pain isn’t as bad, this time, when he moves. Because he wants, oh god he wants, and he can never have.

Because Michael is so afraid of everything they could be. Because James is so afraid, now, of Michael wanting him. No, that’s not right, he thinks, and wanders mostly naked, clad only in his inadequate towel, across the barren hotel room to the open sweep of the expansive window, and rests his head, tiredly, against the coolness of the glass.

Because they’re both afraid. Michael has good reason. Michael’s career is on the verge of that great take-off, the big breaks, the recognition, everything he’s spent so long waiting for. James has less good reason, in that his own career could probably only be helped by the rumors, but he would never do that to Michael. Would never betray Michael that way.

Michael’s already hurt him. He can feel the reminders every time he moves. It’d be so easy to say something. To say anything at all.

He’s not going to say anything. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. Not to anyone.

He walks back across the room, and hangs up the damp and no-longer-fluffy towel, and then back into the bedroom, and curls into a ball on the floor beside the bed where no one else can hear him, and after a while gets to his feet and gets dressed and smiles on set throughout the entire day, and the expression’s as real as he tells himself it ought to be.

Of course it doesn’t end there.

He knows it won’t. Not when Michael looks at him, two days later, through sand and merciless sunlight and intensity, and James either makes himself or lets himself cry, uncertain which and certain it won’t matter, lying in those muscular arms.

Michael’s hand wraps around his wrist after Matthew says “Cut!”, and squeezes, hard, and James doesn’t even nod, only lets himself be pulled to his feet and across the unremarkable distance and into Michael’s trailer and onto the couch, the scent of salt and sea-spray and stickiness, in his hair, over their shared skin, when hands and hips collide. Michael fucks him while he’s bent over the solid piece of furniture, their glistening superhero suits pushed down around their ankles, absurd and incongruous and utterly breathless.

James wants to come and hurts fractionally too much to come and wants to speak, and can’t, not when Michael’s saying his name, gasping “ _James_ ,” out loud, to the hushed observance of the walls and the trailing sand.

His legs give way, afterward; Michael catches him, automatically, and they’re not facing each other, so he can’t read those changeable eyes when Michael says “All right?”

The phrase might refer to the sex, or James himself, or the disobedient legs, or their friendship, or any number of things, really. He doesn’t know and none of those are all right, so what he says is, “Thank you,” since Michael’s continued to hold him upright, and Michael says “Fuck,” and releases him, as if those hands can’t stay in contact with his skin any longer than necessary.

James gets dressed without ever once turning around, and he’s pretty sure Michael hasn’t moved at all by the time he leaves.

He only asks Michael to stay once.

They’re in James’s room, and it’s late. Very late. They’ve spent the day being flung around the mock jet interior and slammed into the floor and James can feel all the bruises beneath his skin, waiting to erupt, and he knows they’re going to do it all again tomorrow. The soreness and fatigue creeps through every inch of his body, and hangs in every black-velvet drop of air.

Michael had watched him, in the hotel restaurant, as James picked wearily at unappetizing food. Had met his eyes, when James’d given up and set down his fork, feeling guilty; the food had been trying hard, but he’s too tired to be hungry.

Michael’d gotten up, too, and followed him into the elevator, and James had glanced up, and then found himself being crushed into the mirrored back wall of the lift with Michael’s hand on the waistband of his jeans.

He’d thought, or hoped, or wanted to hope, that Michael might be gentle with him, this time. Might notice all the stiffness and protesting muscles. And maybe Michael had. And maybe it hadn’t mattered.

He’d run into the tiny hotel shop, the day before, and picked up lube, on the tentative assumption that that’d make everything easier. It had to work better than the lotion, he’d thought. The clerk, a girl about his sister’s age, had grinned at him, knowingly, and chirped, “Have a good time!” as he’d left. James hadn’t been able to speak, in reply.

He’d offered the bottle to Michael, eyes averted, and there’d been a fractional pause and then long fingers had taken it out of his hand and shoved him down onto the bed. And it had helped. Not enough, but some.

He’s starting to wonder whether it’s his own fault, somehow. Whether there’s something wrong with his responses; other people enjoy sex, he knows they do, and it _has_ to be possible for two men to both have orgasms in bed with each other. It just doesn’t seem to be possible for him, not when Michael pushes his legs apart without a word and thrusts inside him. He can be aroused—he can be angry at himself for being aroused, for the shivers that he feels with the knowledge that Michael does want him, at the scent of that hair and the heat of that body—but once they actually get there, the pain is too real to be ignored.

Michael never seems to notice that small detail. Possibly he assumes that James finishes himself off afterwards, or perhaps he thinks that James is simply very good at coming silently, since Michael’s preferred position seems to involve James face-down and bent over the bed; so that Michael doesn’t have to see his face, James thinks, in darker moments. This begs the question of whether Michael ever looks at the sheets, where James has been lying, once they sit up, because it’d be difficult to miss the lack of evidence there.

Of course, Michael has a hard enough time looking at _James_. He’s no doubt even less interested in the sheets.

If Michael looks, if Michael cares whether James finds pleasure, that might make Michael gay. And Michael, as was pointed out so emphatically the very first time, is not gay. Doesn’t want to be. Doesn’t want to know these things.

James, curled into the bed in the misty chill of this night, doesn’t ask him to. Only watches him rematerialize from the bathroom and search for clothing. The dampness of incoming rain burrows into the sheets, the air, his heart.

Michael picks up his shirt. Glances at James, warily. This is a little unusual; other nights, James also gets up, and makes his way into the bathroom once Michael’s done, and washes at least some of the evidence away.

He’s so very tired, tonight. In so many ways.

Michael puts on his shirt and looks for his left shoe and James, hurting everywhere, says, “Please stay.”

Michael drops the shoe. Stares at him. It’s the expression of a man who’s taken a step, believing himself to be on solid ground, and tumbled over a cliff.

James fights the impulse to apologize, mostly successfully. He can ask for this. He can. This one time. Because he wants to be touched, and held, and comforted, just once. Because he’s feeling so damn alone, and he wants to pretend that isn’t true.

“Don’t leave,” he says, this time.

Michael stares at him some more. Says, eloquently, nothing.

The rain begins, outside. The barest susurration of ghostly drops.

And James looks away, at the folds of the sheet, white cotton and wrinkles like scars. “Never mind.”

“James,” Michael says.

“I know.” He crushes the closest cotton fold inside his hand. The rain hits the window, loudly. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Michael says. “I can’t do this, I—James, we have to—this has to end, you know that, this can’t mean—”

“I said you could leave. If you wanted to.” The words come out more abrupt than he plans, but he’s struggling not to give any quarter to the advancing tears. They burn. Acid under his eyelids.

He hears Michael swallow, and then hears Michael pick up the fallen shoe, and then hears Michael leave, chased by the persistent weeping echo of the rain.

They spend exactly a week as friends, laughing and joking and sneaking Matthew’s director’s chair into mysterious and random places, when he’s not looking, on the set. It’s a good week. Fun.

It’s a crystalline evening, seven days later, the stars like carelessly spilled diamonds over blue silk, and the night air tastes like crispness and autumn, and Michael’s lips are cold when they brush the line of James’s throat, in the elevator.

They end up in Michael’s room, that night. And the night after.

No one mentions the word _stay_.

And it’s never as long as a week, in between, ever again. Three days, sometimes. Four, if their schedules are inconveniently incompatible. That only happens once and it’s Michael who appears in James’s trailer one afternoon, eyes wide and desperate, and who whispers something that sounds like “I missed you” when he thinks that James isn’t listening, in the blur of bodies coming together.

James is listening, but he’s fairly sure Michael didn’t mean for him to hear that, so he doesn’t answer. He moves one hand, though, and touches Michael’s fingers with his own, and Michael gasps and grabs his hand and presses it into the fraying sofa cushions, holding him down, holding on, and comes.

The days turn into weeks. James gets used to the omnipresent soreness, and even stops noticing, after a while. Michael touches him more, in public, almost absentmindedly, as if the gestures are only natural: an arm around his shoulders, a hand on his leg. Neither of them mentions that, either.

And the weeks turn into months, and the months go by.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael, on the last day of filming. A partial, incomplete, realization; first steps, if small ones...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six! Chapter heading from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Maps".

Six: _pack up, don’t stray/ oh say, say, say/ oh, say, say, say/ wait…_

It’s the last day of filming. James doesn’t say goodbye to him, on set.

Michael’s busy anyway, since he has one final scene to complete, one more costume, full Magneto regalia. James, who’s finished his final scene already, earlier that morning, changes out of his professorial Charles suit and grins and hugs everyone he can reach. Some of them cry. Of course they do. Everyone’ll miss James.

Their eyes catch, for a second, as James shakes hands with Matthew. But Michael’s surrounded by scowling costume designers, muttering imprecations about the shine of his cape versus the color of the lighting, and James has a line of bodies waiting to hug him, and so when James shrugs one shoulder, a small rueful acknowledgement, Michael nods back, and watches him turn around and get lifted off his feet by an overly enthusiastic Kevin Bacon.

It’s easy to throw himself into Erik’s emotionally wounded mindset, after that.

When he finishes, he sticks around for a while because the crew is having a last-shot-of the-film celebration party, and they offer him a beer, and it’d be rude to say no. But he’s not exactly in a party mood.

He should be, of course, and he will be, tomorrow, when he can wake up and think about the fantastic project he’s been so lucky to be a part of, all they’ve accomplished, the satisfaction of finishing, and finishing well. He’ll be excited, and energized, and ready to leap into the next role, as soon as filming begins. He’s got everything in the world to look forward to.

But now, as he makes his solitary way back to the hotel and wanders down the corridor to his room, he just keeps reliving that moment. He’d been asked a question by one of the designers, something about cape length and what theatrical gestures he might be planning to attempt with it, and he’d tried to answer, and when he’d looked up, the blue eyes hadn’t been there anymore.

He feels cheated somehow. As if he should’ve been able to stand there and watch James go. Until the last curling wisp of hair’d slipped out of sight.

Because he’s focusing so intently on that feeling, he doesn’t look up right away, and so doesn’t see the person at his hotel-room door until they nearly run into each other.

James. Standing half turned away, in a pose that suggests he’s been about to give up and leave. Hands in his pockets. Nervous eyes.

“James,” Michael says out loud, as if the invocation will make him more real, and then grabs his shoulders and pulls him inside.

He’s not gentle. He never is, not any of the wordless nights and unplanned mornings and stolen hours in which they’ve done whatever this is they’re doing, but he’s even less so this night. His hands, his teeth, leave bruises, marks, blossoming mementoes over pale hips and thighs and arms. He knows they’ll hurt, later; that they no doubt hurt now. James doesn’t complain.

James does touch himself, this time, when Michael’s buried inside him. They’ve ended up on the bed with Michael on top, James on his back and looking up, or he would be looking up if those eyes were open. They aren’t.

But one expressive hand slides between their bodies and caresses and strokes, tentatively at first, and then Michael realizes what James is doing and pulls back a bit and sits up more, because he needs to, has to, watch.

James keeps his eyes closed, and he might or might not feel Michael’s astonished gaze, but the strokes become a bit more steady, after a while, and his cock swells, growing harder, between them.

There’s something important about that, and Michael will remember why later, but he’s enraptured, and he can’t think.

“James,” he says, voice rough with desire, and James gasps and comes, at the sound of his name spilling from Michael’s lips.

James, on the shining and ecstatic edge of orgasm, is the most beautiful thing Michael’s ever seen.

James shivers, in the aftermath, and that body tightens everywhere around him, and Michael thrusts into him harder and faster because he can’t help it, quick and uncontrollable and urgent, and when he comes it feels like the world bursts into incandescence with him.

A while after that, James says, very quietly, “Can I get up sometime soon, I should, um, clean up, we probably both want me to clean up,” and Michael winces, recalling the bruises, recognizing suddenly that his weight might be imposingly heavy, and slides out and away. “Sorry.”

“No,” James says, “you’re…fine,” and darts off the bed and into the bathroom while Michael is still sitting on the side of the bed searching for equilibrium.

The shower flips on. Then back off. James reappears, hair clinging wetly to his face in darkened clumps, skin very pink, as if he’s been vigorously scrubbing. Glittering drops of water drip from that hair and form trailing beads over his collarbone.

He doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes.

When he reaches for clothing, Michael says, desperately, “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Just…don’t. Not yet.” Please, he thinks, but doesn’t say that one out loud.

James might’ve heard it regardless, because he sighs, and the shoulders slump slightly, though whether that’s exhaustion or resignation or acceptance Michael can’t tell. He doesn’t answer, but he does set his jeans down and make his way back over to the bed.

“You look tired,” Michael says. He doesn’t mean to say that, either, but it’s true.

“I am.”

“You could…nap. Here. You could sleep here. If you want to. I have to, um…” He waves a hand at the bathroom, and by implication the shower, assuming James will know what he means. James is so very good at knowing what people mean. James always knows the right words, has a smile, or a joke, at hand to rescue broken conversations. Or almost always. James hasn’t been saying much, lately, to him. “But you can stay.”

James nods. Slips gingerly into Michael’s bed, and settles at the very edge of the other side, as if trying to take up as little room as he can. Shuts his eyes again. And is asleep by the time Michael reemerges from the bathroom.

Michael stands there and watches him sleep, hair falling over the pillow, one hand tucked under his face, the smoke-smudge of a fingerprint-sized bruise visible on that bare arm. His heart aches. He’s not certain what that feeling is.

It’s not until much later, as he’s lying sleeplessly in bed beside James, the overly soft pillows doing their unsuccessful best to lure him into dreams, that he figures out why that earlier moment is so important.

Not because James had been so entrancing, though of course he had. Not because Michael’s own orgasm had been the best of his fucking life, in the wake of that sight.

Because he’s never seen James have an orgasm before. He’s never watched James come, in bed, with him. James never _has_.

James did, this time. Had moved that hand and touched himself and brought himself pleasure, with Michael inside him.

For, Michael realizes, lying frozen in the dark, the _first_ time. Neither of them has ever done that, for James, before.

He sees that moment again, those hesitant fingers, gradually speeding up as James’s cock grew more interested. More aroused. Aroused at all.

Had James ever wanted him, tonight? Or any other time? All at once, Michael finds himself afraid he might need to run back to the bathroom and be violently sick.

He’d known, of course he’d known, now that he’s thinking about it. He’s never done anything for James, in bed. Has never touched James there, or wondered how James might be enjoying himself, as Michael takes him. He’s never imagined what that must feel like, because he’s _not_ gay, he never has been, has never envisioned his hand stroking another man’s cock, bringing someone to orgasm under his fingertips.

Except now he’s picturing James again, and that’s his hand doing all of those things, in place of James’s own. That thought should frighten him, and maybe it does, but he’s currently lost in mental panic over something potentially much worse.

James must’ve been finding some sort of pleasure. He _has_ to have been. He’d come to Michael’s room, tonight. He’d offered himself, given himself, let Michael see that most intimate of moments. James has to have been enjoying himself, because if not, if he hasn’t been, then what Michael’s been doing to him is…

At which point James, still asleep, sighs and rolls over, facing him, and one foot inserts itself between Michael’s calves, and Michael doesn’t know what that means, but maybe James doesn’t hate him. James _is_ asleep, naked, here in his bed. That has to mean something, too.

He wants to shake James into wakefulness and ask, but he looks at his hands and at closed blue eyes and he can’t.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. When he wakes up, the room is bitterly empty, and the other side of the bed is neatly made, and James is, with incontrovertible finality, gone.

But of course it doesn’t end there, either.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James hasn't seen Michael in months. Now they have publicity to do, for the film. And a lot of unspoken words lying between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost halfway! Chapter heading from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Gold Lion", this time.

Seven: _our hands out of control/ outside, inside/ this is the moon without a tide/ we’ll build a fire in your eyes_

Of course there’s no such thing as an ending, for them.

He hasn’t seen Michael in months. Isn’t prepared for the shivery hot feeling that wells up, from somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, when he does. It leaves him unbalanced. Weightless. And for a second all he can remember is that warmth, surrounding him, in him, everywhere.

They’re standing outside, not yet having made it into the lobby of the hotel that’s going to be home for the next weeks of interviews and photo shoots and press conferences, and the clouds part and sunlight tumbles down over them both, because the universe has no subtlety whatsoever, and James forgets to close the car door behind him, after he gets out and his eyes land on Michael, who’s already there.

He remembers pain, too, but not only his own. In Michael’s eyes and hands and cock, when he moves inside James as if the world’s disintegrating around them.

Appropriate, he thinks. He’s not felt like he’s made it back to solid ground even now, after so long.

Michael has horrible blond hair at the moment and has put on an almost unnoticeable bit of weight, mostly muscle, and when he says hello to Kevin those uncategorizable eyes brighten cheerfully, defying the chill of the afternoon, and he grins. James finds himself grinning too, caught up in the expression, the exuberance, all the teeth. As always, every time.

Michael turns around, when Kevin waves in James’s direction. Spots him. And the smile wavers, for a split second.

James keeps his own firmly fixed in place, and tips his head to the side as if thoroughly scrutinizing the new look, and offers, “So it’s good to see you, but you could’ve left the evil hair dye at home, I think you’re frightening the children,” and Michael starts laughing and slides an arm around his shoulders without either of them thinking about it. The weight feels like the return of stability to the world.

“I hope someday you’ll have to go blond. For a role. Any role. And I’ll be there to point. And laugh. Also, it’s a publicity event, what children?”

“My hair doesn’t find you very amusing. And, all right, maybe not children, but you’re definitely frightening me. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you’re pretty much everything amazing, these days.”

Michael actually blushes. James falls in love all over again. Just like that, two minutes and one warm arm and laughter in the air.

“I’m not going to say it’s not been fun…”

“Of course it’s fun! And you deserve the fun. And the fame. What’s it _like_ , being famous?” He widens his eyes at Michael, breathlessly, and Michael cracks up, and James grins. The air is cold, but the sunlight is warm, soaking through the weight of his jacket, and he’s made Michael laugh, and the world is, in that instant, exactly the way it should always and forever be.

Jennifer comes bouncing over, skids to a stop, stares at Michael’s hair. “Oh my _god!_ ”

“See,” James says, with happy conviction, “you _are_ frightening the children!” And Michael groans. And leaves his arm around James’s shoulders nevertheless, all afternoon.

Despite this promising start, the next few days prove to be nothing but frustrating.

It’s not the interviews, or maybe it is, in a way. They have too many individual interviews. Too much time spent apart, in interchangeable hotel rooms and conference halls. Even when they have group interviews, he never seems to end up next to Michael. There’s a distance between them. And that vertiginous feeling, the ground not thoroughly secure, returns.

When they do those group interviews, or joint interviews, he catches Michael looking at him, sideways, sometimes. Unpredictable odd flickers of emotion. Surprise. Affection. Longing.

Perhaps that last one is only in James’s own head. Michael seems to be afraid to spend time alone with him, judging from how quickly all that blond hair vanishes after the sessions. It’s impossible to reconcile those rapid retreats, James concludes, with the wistful expressions.

He inquires, once or twice, whether Michael would like to grab dinner, or lunch, or one of the meals they might actually have time for. Michael looks terrified, and visibly pulls excuses out of thin air each time, and departs.

James thinks, in the secluded darkness of his own room, that he understands. He’d pushed too far, that last time, after all. Had shown Michael his own desire, in that bedroom, that last night. Unprompted. Unrequested. He knows he’s scared Michael, with that possibility. And maybe he shouldn’t’ve left the way he had, but he’d wanted to keep the memory of Michael’s voice saying _you could sleep here_ , and not _get out_ or _why are you here_ or _this can’t mean anything_ , any of the words Michael’s said before and might’ve said again in the morning.

Selfish, of course, but he’s not sure he could’ve survived hearing those words one more time. And he _does_ understand the fear. It’s not as if he’s ever been in love with a man before, either. He’s only more used to it, having been wanting Michael for so damn long.

After understanding for a while, he gets angry about it anyway.

Michael’d been wanting him, taking pleasure, finding relief, all those months. It’s only fair that James had done the same, one time at least. It’s what they should’ve been doing all along. And if Michael can’t see past his own doubts and recognize that, then, James decides, rolling over and thumping his long-suffering pillow for good measure, Michael is an ass.

This realization does nothing to change the fact that James is in love with said ass. For that matter, he’s potentially in love with Michael’s _actual_ ass, as well. It’s very attractive, especially in tight jeans.

At least the pillows never care, when he flings them across the room in the dark. He apologizes afterwards, and puts them back on the bed, and feels vaguely guilty. Not their fault. They’re made of feathers, and can’t help him with the heartache.

The fourth day of the first week, as Michael continues to avoid him as much as humanly possible, all the irritation and pining and annoyance comes to a head, and leaps out of his mouth, while he’s talking.

Unfortunately, said talking occurs in the midst of an interview. Live. On camera.

It’s the last of the day, and he’s the last one except for Kevin to go, everyone else finished and relaxing in another room and gleefully watching each other on the helpfully-provided monitors. Michael’d been charmingly intelligent and endearingly awkward, of course, as ever; James had hoped his own expression hadn’t been too idiotically fond, as the footage played.

He’d smiled at Michael, after, and Michael’d grinned back, and then very obviously realized that he was letting himself be too comfortable around James, and had diverted his own path across the room in order to go find Zoe. And James had felt the sparks of exasperation under his skin, like firecrackers igniting. They’re still burning, now.

This interviewer is rather young and enthusiastic and obviously thrilled to be there, and James answers every question as thoughtfully and interestingly as he can, and it’s easy, he does like seeing other people get excited, and the boy’s eyes light up when James makes jokes, and so he does what he can.

He’s decidedly hungry, because it’s been hours since he’s had any kind of food, and the artificial lights’re unforgiving, and that pent-up emotion’s crackling in his veins, and the final question gets asked, and he’s not responsible for what happens next.

The prompt’s a silly one. Something about what everyone most wants to know, what question people want to ask him, about the film.

He knows with complete certainty what’ll happen if he says the words on the tip of his tongue. Can envision it all.

So he says them. Out loud.

The interviewer starts laughing, taking the response as humor, the way everyone else bar one is going to take it. “And how many times _did_ you two have sex, then?”

“Oh…four.” He has no clue why that number pops into his head; for some reason he’d not been expecting to have to give an actual count. Four sounds good. Might’ve been five, or ten, or twenty, which would likely be more accurate, but no, his brain’s gone with four.

“And what’s that like, then? Very tender?”

“Tender?” He’s not asking for the definition. He can’t not repeat the word, though. It’s so alien to what they’ve been doing that it makes no sense at all.

“You know, a little kiss on the neck, some cuddles afterward, maybe some spooning…”

“No,” James says, and now he’s being wholly honest, and it’s at once perfectly safe and wildly reckless, and he doesn’t give a damn. “No, I’m left to take care of myself, after.”

“Well,” says the interviewer, still laughing, “you heard it here first: Michael Fassbender isn’t perfect after all, in bed. And on that note…”

On that note, they finish. James stands up. Shakes the boy’s hand. Starts counting, in his head.

It takes five minutes and thirty-seven seconds for Michael to find him. And two minutes of that has to be eaten up by the sprint from the monitors backstage to the interview room to the spot beside the elevators where James is standing, wondering whether he has the time or the inclination to acquire a very belated dinner, or if he should go right up to his room and wait.

He’s not really hungry. That’s not a craving for food, twisting his stomach into knots.

When Michael’s hand lands on his shoulder, it’s almost a relief. The fizzing swirls of anticipation, of fear, of desire, focus and solidify into that single point of contact. Real.

“ _Four_ ,” Michael hisses. “James, you—you—what the _fuck?_ ”

“It’s not as if I told him it was true!”

“You knew I was watching!”

“Of course.”

Michael stares down into his eyes. Leaves the hand where it is, on his shoulder. Elevator doors open. Close. Groups of bodies meander past, dressed for the night. Nothing matters except the two of them.

“You _did_ know I was watching.”

“I said.”

“…fuck.” Might be rage. Or dawning comprehension. Or any one of a thousand other emotions; James can’t be sure, because he’s currently too busy realizing the enormity of what he’s done.

“Your room,” Michael whispers. “Now.”

They barely make it to the bed. Michael appears completely ready to ruin James’s clothing and possibly also the couch before they get there, but James _likes_ his bed. It’s luxuriously plush, like furniture out of a fairytale. He suspects he might need the softness.

The haste, the roughness, the lack of preparation, those are all the same, as if they’ve never stopped, as if they’ve not spent months apart, but there’s something different, too, this time. In the way Michael puts a hand on his hip, when James starts to lean over the bed, and turns him, carefully, until they’re facing each other. In the lightness of touches, no teeth, no nails, no marks to redden his skin in the wake of the deed.

In the pause, after Michael plunges into him, when James can’t help the small cry as his body, not used to the invasion anymore, gives way.

“James,” Michael breathes. His name quivers in the coolness of the evening, the heat of the sheets, and long fingers trail over his cheek, questioning.

James swallows. Looks up. Tries to smile. Michael’s eyebrows draw together, over those pale eyes. One fingertip finds the corner of James’s eyelashes, and James turns his head but can’t hide the dampness fast enough.

Michael brings thumb and finger together, as if testing, curious, wondering whether those tears are real. “You…does this hurt you? When I…”

“Um…maybe? A little?” He could say yes, but Michael’s never asked, before. If Michael’s asking now, the uncushioned truth might be too harsh to hear, in this raw and breakable moment. But he’s not going to lie, either.

“You—” The next words come out somewhere between an order and a plea. “What you did—that last time—I want to watch you. Again.” And, when James doesn’t move right away, pinned in place by all the emotions— _yes_ and _no_ and _you remember that?_ and _you want me to enjoy this?_ —Michael adds, as if the word’s being forced out from someplace deep inside, “Please.”

James licks his lips. Only registers that he’s making the nervous gesture when Michael’s eyes track the sweep of his tongue. Stops.

Then he moves his hand.

He can’t look at Michael. He tries. The intensity of that gaze, narrowed on his strokes and caresses and rhythms, is too much. He _thinks_ about Michael, instead. About the laugh, about the unabashedly toothy grin, about the passion and dedication, and the strength, physical and mental, everything that’s made Michael who he is, everything that the rest of the world is only now beginning to see.

The pain doesn’t go away, but it gets more bearable, mingled with sweetness, and he can hear himself breathing faster, or possibly that’s Michael, or both of them, in unison.

Michael doesn’t push or force anything or alter positions, inside him. Only watches. When James shifts his hand, finding a better position, and his cock slides through his fingers, wetness building at the tip, Michael breathes in, raggedly, and tenses all over.

Those kaleidoscopic eyes are fixed on his movements, so James does venture a glance up, at that. Sees Michael, looking at him.

He tries moving his hips, experimentally; the flash of agony suggests that that’s not a good idea, with that iron length buried so deeply in him, but the sensation fades, especially when Michael gasps again, and then whispers his name.

And that’s so close, so much like all those fantasies he no longer believes in, and he’s right on that edge, and so he whispers “Michael” right back, and then comes, release like waves through his entire body, under the gaze of those awestruck eyes.

They remain caught in that brightness for one or two heartbeats, and then Michael groans something that sounds like “oh, fuck, _James_ ,” and then thrusts into him, unreserved now and with shocking force, in and out and in again, and James can’t think anymore, lost in the collision of ebbing euphoria and suddenly renewed hurt, the intimacy of what he’s just offered and the fear of all the potential repercussions, lying in wait for later.

Michael’s talking again, a rush of words, _James_ and _I need to, I have to, now_ , and he feels the heat erupt inside him, washing through his body. He’s already lightheaded, and the continuing inundation knocks away what balance he has left. He can hear himself panting, though, so he clings to that sound as if it might save him.

Michael slips out of him. Sits up. James can’t move. Can’t even pull his legs back together, or open his eyes.

“James,” Michael says, and there’s an odd note in his voice, “say something. Please.”

Words are complicated creatures. They scuttle away and hide, when he tries to reach for them.

“ _James_ ,” Michael repeats, and the unfamiliar note is stronger, now, and it might be concern, and Michael shouldn’t be concerned. Michael doesn’t _want_ to be concerned, not about him.

So he opens his eyes and folds clumsy legs back together, hiding the bruised space and slickness from sight, and says, “I’m here, sorry, what did you need?”

“You—” Michael stops. Looks away, at the new wrinkles in the once-clean sheet. “I don’t understand you.”

James doesn’t have a good answer for that. Not as if he understands himself, these days. So he goes with, “Was that what you wanted? Me, I mean? Was that…good?” because he never has asked, not really, and he does want to know.

“Was that—James, you—yes, it was, but—”

“Then we’re good.”

Michael stares at him for a while. Shakes his head. “Do you want…we should…do you want the bathroom first, this time?”

“Ah…no.” He’s fairly sure he’s bleeding, now; the wetness stings, between his legs. If he gets up first, with Michael sitting on the bed, he won’t be able to hide that fact. If Michael’s not looking, he can grab the tissues.

“…all right.” Michael gets up. After a pause, the water grumbles into existence. James sits up, silently thanks the room for agreeing to not spin, and lunges for the tissue box.

By the time Michael comes back, the tissues are back in place, and the sheets have survived unscathed, and his legs are mostly not wobbly, and so he can stand under the shower, and take deep breaths, and think about what he’s done, what they’ve done, what Michael asked him to do, and what that might mean.

“Four,” Michael says again, when he emerges.

Michael’s sitting naked on the bed, one arm resting on pulled-up knees. The other hand is toying with  James’s favorite pillow, the most companionably squashable one. It doesn’t seem to mind being touched by Michael. Of course not; it knows all of James’s feelings on that subject, too.

“I…honestly, I don’t know. I might’ve panicked. I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve said anything.” Michael fiddles with the corner of the pillowcase. It bends, flexibly, around those fingers. “Four. Seriously. And…not tender?”

“Well, you’re not.”

“You—you never said you wanted—I don’t know what you—oh, fuck. Never mind. Tell the interviewers whatever the hell you want, and I’ll be there afterwards, like you knew I would, this time. You did know that. You meant everything you did.”

“I—maybe. Yes. But so did you, just now. When you asked me to—to do that, so you could watch. You wanted me to. You want me to want you. And you don’t want to admit it.”

“…fuck you,” Michael bites out, after a second, and James snaps back, “You just did that, and you enjoyed it,” and Michael opens his mouth and then doesn’t appear to have any arguments left.

“And you made me enjoy it too,” James says, “you made me enjoy myself, for you, and I _did_.”

“Shut the hell up, James,” Michael says, wearily, dangerously, and throws the pillow at him, one abrupt explosive motion, “and come back to bed.”

James ducks, not successfully because he can’t move fast enough. “What?”

“Was that not clear?” Michael slides down into the sheets. Waves a hand. “There was mention of cuddling, right? Spooning, afterwards?”

“What,” James says, even though he knows and he knows why and he can feel his previous hope burning away into ashes and despair, “what’re you doing?”

“I’m spending the night. Didn’t you ask me for that, once?”

“No.” They both hear that one for the lie it is. He doesn’t even know why he’s bothered to say it.

“You want me to stay,” Michael says, and James can’t read that tone, or the suddenly guarded eyes. “You want me to stay, to wake you up and fuck you into the mattress in the morning, and then you can tell _all_ the interviewers about our sex life, and about how heartless and inconsiderate I am with you—”

“You are.” That one’s not a lie. His voice is shaking. Might be from anger, or heartbreak, or desire. Or all three. “Get out.”

“What—”

“I said. Leave.”

“If you want,” Michael concedes, after a single eyeblink, and swings himself off the bed and finds his clothes and throws them on with jerkily abrupt motions. But he glances over at James, once or twice, when he’s half-hidden by his shirt, while he’s supposedly fastening his jeans, and there’re brief flickers of trepidation among all the ire.

James doesn’t say anything in response, and Michael walks out of the bedroom and all the way to the door and puts a hand on the knob, and then halts, as if he’s only now understood that James isn’t going to stop him, isn’t going to call him back or refuse to let him go.

When Michael turns around, those eyes are shocked. Desolate. Formerly splashing waters trapped by winter ice.

“James…?”

The word drifts out into the unsettled night, searching for a safe harbor. James swallows. Hard. Looks at Michael’s eyes again. Holds out a life preserver. “You can stay.”

Michael bites his lip. Lifts his hand away from the doorknob, slowly, questioningly. James nods, once. He means it. Through everything, despite everything, he does mean it.

The night is very cool and calm around them, no commentary, no intervention, no assistance at all. If they’re going to be safe, they’ll have to rescue each other.

Michael walks, step by step, back over to the bed, and looks at James, who says, “I kind of get cold at night, so I usually sleep with, um, clothes on, but you can…I know you don’t, so whatever you want, really,” and Michael almost smiles in response, and unbuttons his shirt again, eyes never leaving James’s face.

James keeps his own gaze absolutely steady, encouragement or support or confirmation. Whatever Michael needs.

Michael strips off his shirt and jeans and sleeps in boxer-briefs, that first night, and James doesn’t sleep at all, because he’s thinking about far too many things. He’s hurting again, and he was right about the blood, though thankfully not much this time, and he’s not sure how to handle that particular consequence with Michael in the room. He’s not sure how to handle having Michael in the room at all.

If he says something, does something, wrong, even in his sleep, he might frighten Michael away. And he knows, instinctively, unquestionably, that that would be the end of whatever it is they’ve begun to rebuild.

So he stays awake, through all the long hours of the unspeaking night. And he smiles, when Michael wakes up in his bed looking surprised, and then says, “Wait, I’ll be right back,” and slides out from under the sheets and runs to the bathroom, because he recognizes the look in those eyes, and he needs to make sure there’s no visible evidence of any injuries from the night before.

He thinks he manages the concealment fairly well. At least Michael doesn’t seem to observe anything wrong, when long arms reach for him and pull him back into bed, when Michael fucks him as if trying to believe that James is still there, that James can be touched, that everything is real, as the sun comes up, outside.

He thinks about trying to touch himself, trying to reach for that moment of ecstasy again, but he  doubts that it’d be enough, as the rest of him is busy being overwhelmed by renewed tearing and stretching and pain. And he’s afraid that that’d be asking too much, right now. Too soon.

Michael slips out of him and vanishes into the bathroom, after, and James starts to sit up and the room, inconsiderately, tilts and sways around him, and he stops moving and shuts his eyes. Some indeterminate time passes, while he’s not paying attention.

Michael comes back. James knows this because the air changes, even before the bed dips, as Michael sits down beside him. “James?”

He opens his eyes. Michael’s frowning, a little. “James, are you…did you…you did want to, right? You wanted me to…”

He can’t truthfully say no, and he can’t quite answer yes, so he says “I asked you to stay, didn’t I?” and some of the troubled lines smooth themselves out, but not all. He adds, because it’s not untrue and no doubt a contributing factor to all the dizziness, “I’m fine, I’m only kind of hungry, I didn’t eat anything last night, and you know how much I like food. I could like food quite a lot, right now.” He even sounds like himself. Amazing.

“I can make you coffee,” Michael offers, gingerly, after a second, “if you want.” And James finds himself smiling, in return, through the frosty early-morning air.

And so those things, unspoken words and half-truths and shared beds and morning coffee, fall into place. Become the pieces of the next few days, as the interviews go on.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone finally gets to punch Michael in the face, and some important conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A turning point, at last. Chapter heading this time from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs song "Cheated Hearts".

Eight: _take these rings/ and stow them safe away/ I’ll wear them on another rainy day_

Michael doesn’t even see the punch.

One second he’s walking casually towards the elevator, done with the afternoon’s publicity and wondering vaguely where James has been all day—he hasn’t seen those blue eyes, those starburst freckles, since the previous night; James had been in the shower when he’d rolled foggily out of bed that morning and hadn’t emerged by the time he’d left, and they’d not had any joint interviews scheduled for today—and then he’s on the floor.

The view is not an improvement, especially when Kevin’s irate face appears above him.

“What the _hell_ ,” Michael says, and stays on the ground, because Kevin can apparently hit very hard and looks ready to do it again.

“You bastard,” Kevin says, and Michael says, “All right, I’m confused, what—” and suddenly Zoe and Jennifer are there too, glaring.

“Okay…very confused?”

“James,” Kevin snaps.

“James—where _is_ James, anyway?” If this is some sort of group intervention—maybe because Michael’s been completely taciturn and asocial lately, because he’s been trying to figure out what the hell he wants to do, or wants at all—shouldn’t James be here too?

Or does James not care about him enough for that?

“You don’t even know.” Oh. January’s there too. Behind him. Looking down at him with utter disdain.

“I don’t know _what_?”

“Kevin,” Zoe says, “tell Michael what happened this morning.”

“Can I stand up for this?”

“No.”

Kevin crouches down next to him. The fury, in those ordinarily friendly eyes, would be enough to knock him off his feet, except he’s on the floor as it is. “So this morning, I forgot my phone. Went back upstairs. I’m across from James’s room, right? And I knew I’d seen you leave, earlier. And I heard someone crying. Not just crying. In real fucking pain, Michael.”

“You—James—I didn’t—” He’s not even sure what he’s trying to say. James had been crying? He’s never seen James cry, not really. On camera, of course. James is a fantastic actor. Can weep on command, if need be, if the character demands it, tiny shining perfect tears.

He never _has_ seen James cry, though. Not off-camera. Not in real life.

Except apparently James does cry. When he, Michael, has gone.

In pain, Kevin’d said. In pain? He tries to ask again.

“Shut up. I knocked. He answered. And he’s a fucking fantastic actor, you know that, we all know that, and I almost thought I’d been imagining it, and then he offered me coffee, and while he was doing that I kind of looked around, because when you’re weird enough you can go wandering around other people’s hotel rooms without needing an excuse, and there was fucking blood on the floor, in the shower, Michael. Not much, but enough. I could see it.”

At some point during that speech he’d opened his mouth to interject. Now, however—right now, as those words bite into the air—he can’t. He can’t even breathe.

The world’s frozen solid around him. Suffocating. Icily clear. The hush is as brutal as the knives in Kevin’s voice.

“Not just on the floor. On the tissues. In the trash. He saw me come back out of the bathroom and he knew I knew and he asked me to leave. Nicely. James is always nice, to everyone, but you know that, don’t you? Better than anyone.”

The ice has crept into his chest. Has started squeezing his heart, with the steady implacability of glaciers. James had been hurt. Bleeding. He’d—James had never said—of course James hadn’t. Wouldn’t.

He’s hurt James. Maybe seriously.

He’s _been_ hurting James. All along. The world trembles, on its axis. He hasn’t been thinking. Not at all.

What he _has_ been is fucking selfish. Assuming, since James hasn’t been protesting their undefined and nameless encounters, that they’re all right, that they’ll…keep going. Continue. As they’ve been. Until Michael can get his own head, and heart, figured out.

And James has been bleeding silently, every time Michael’s left. And hasn’t told him. Hasn’t told anyone. James _is_ a nice person. The most unhesitatingly generous person Michael’s ever, ever known.

“I told him I wasn’t going to leave him alone, and then I got him a different hotel room—and I’m not telling you, don’t even ask—and that was a compromise, because he might still run into you here at _this_ hotel and I wanted him to never have to lay eyes on you again, if he wanted that, but he said no—”

James hadn’t wanted to go?

“—and Nicholas is up there with him right now, in case he tries anything stupid like wanting to see you.”

“He…said he wants to—”

“He says he does. We wanted to see you first.”

“You fucking heartless bastard,” Zoe adds, because plainly Michael needs to be told so again.

He does need to be told so. He deserves it. Every word.

“That’s not all,” Jennifer says. “Kevin, he asked you something, right?”

“Yes. And the only reason you’re not in agonizing pain right now, by the way, is because he asked me not to hurt you. I want to, but I have a lot of respect for James, so I promised I wouldn’t, but depending on what you say next, I’m entirely willing to break that particular promise.”

Michael tries to ask, mutely, only with his expression. Not because of Kevin’s threats. Because he can’t remember any words.

“I’m only going to ask you this once, so answer carefully. Did you know that James was a virgin? About this? With men?”

At which point the world, already unreliable, collapses into wavering grey around him.

“Huh,” Kevin says, evidently surprised. “You didn’t know. You—Michael?”

There’s a complicated few seconds during which Michael can’t remember anything, and then he’s leaning forward, head between his knees, and trying to breathe. Kevin’s sitting next to him, looking marginally more sympathetic.

“Still with us?”

“Um…maybe.” Even though he’s not quite sure why. He’s surprised that they haven’t thrown him off the nearest hotel balcony. He’s tempted to do it himself. If he can ever find his legs again. “You said he…he asked you something. What…”

“He asked me, and this is a direct quote, if I knew whether it should hurt that much all the time, or if it’d get easier. If he’d eventually stop bleeding, after. You _bastard_.” A pause. “That last part was me, not him. _He’s_ worried about you. He thinks you need him.”

“…I do. I _do_. Christ. I—” He’s afraid he might be going to pass out. Again. “Is he—all right? Or—did I—he’s not—tell me it’s not that bad, please, is he okay, is he going to be—?”

“He says he’s fine.” Kevin sighs. A bit of the anger’s receded, possibly because Michael’s words had sounded so desperate. He _is_. “And I like you a little more because you asked. And I think you mean it.”

“I do mean it! I— _he_ says he’s fine, you said. You don’t think—you think he’s—not?”

“I think he should go to the closest hospital and get himself taken care of, by someone who knows more about this than I do. I think I saw James—who I’ve never known to be clumsy since I’ve met him—nearly spill a cup of coffee on me because his hands were shaking. I think he’s an idiot for saying no when I offered to drive him somewhere and get help, or a restraining order.”

“Oh god…”

“You…” Kevin studies him, thoughtfully. “You do care, don’t you? You really didn’t know?”

“Of course I care! I—he—I think I might be—I love him.” And when he says the words they don’t feel wrong, or frightening, or unnatural. They feel like something he’s known all along. He loves the freckles and the blue eyes and the selflessness because James is James, and it’s not about being gay or straight or anything in between. It just _is_.

“I think you don’t know what that means,” Kevin says, and Michael’s heart cracks, fault lines bursting under pressure. The world crumbles serenely  into dust at the words, no fanfare, only irreparable loss.

Kevin’s right. He’s never known what that means. If he’s learned, now, it’s far too late. It was too late the first time he followed James into the elevator, up to his room, pushed him down on the bed, and told him that it couldn’t mean anything, could never be anything other than sex.

James has been bleeding. There’s nothing he can say to make that not have happened. There’s nothing left for him to undo.

He’s aware that he’s shaking. He can’t look at his hands. “Kevin,” he manages, and Kevin raises both eyebrows. “You think we want to hear anything you want to say?”

“No. You shouldn’t. And don’t tell me where he is. But—please—when you see him, and please do see him, stay with him, don’t let him be alone, he’ll tell you he’s all right when he’s not—”

“I know.”

“I—of course you do, of course you know that, I—please tell him I’m sorry. I’m—I never meant to—no, don’t say that. It doesn’t matter. Tell him I won’t—I’ll stay away. As far as he wants. I swear. And I’m sorry. Can you just say that?”

Kevin stares at him for a while. Michael can’t look up, but can feel the weight of the regard.

“I’ll tell him,” Kevin decides, and Michael breathes again, “and if he ever wants to see you, I’ll let you know where and when. And if he doesn’t want to see you, you respect that, and you never see him again, and if you come anywhere near him I will personally—”

“I thought I asked you not to hurt him.” So painfully familiar. Scottish whisky and sun-warmed velvet.

Michael stumbles to his feet so fast he nearly loses his balance on the way. “ _James_ —”

Kevin gets up, too. Scowls. “I wasn’t. Only threatening to hurt him. What happened to Nicholas?”

“Ah…I told him I wanted to get out of the room for a while, and then I might’ve…suggested to the closest journalist that I’d seen him and Jennifer sleeping together. The last I saw, he was being mobbed by sharks with cameras.”

“You said _what?!”_

“It wasn’t exactly a lie. You two were very much napping together on the set. I have pictures. Which I possibly mentioned; not my fault if they misinterpreted. Are you done threatening him, yet? I think I’d like to talk to him, if you are.”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Jennifer says, and sprints away, pulling out her mobile phone on the way. The remaining three faces glance from James to Michael and back again; Zoe observes, “We’re trying to make sure you don’t _have_ to talk to him,” and James nods, eyes very blue against the placid beige backdrop of the hallway.

“I appreciate that. And thank you. But there’re some things we probably need to say, or things I want to say, anyway, and I don’t actually want Kevin to castrate him on the spot.”

“Not on _this_ spot. I’d find a less public location.”

“…I think you’ve made my point. And he’s not going to hurt me.”

Michael opens his mouth to ask “How can you know?” because no, he’s not, he won’t, he’s amazed that James can even stand to look at him, but James doesn’t know that, doesn’t have any reason to believe it. Zoe beats him to the question.

James looks at Michael, in response. Lifts an interested eyebrow. “Are you planning to?”

“No!”

“Well, then.”

“James…” Kevin obviously knows the argument is futile, but is trying anyway. “Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to do this. Especially not alone.”

“It’ll be fine.” James holds out a hand, a request, towards Michael. “Come on.”

“If you aren’t back in twenty minutes,” Kevin says, “or if you are, and you look anywhere close to how you did this morning, I’m calling the police.”

“Seriously,” James sighs, “I know you mean well, but this is—” and Michael says “Twenty minutes, I promise, agreed,” and James blinks, surprised. “You—really?”

That surprise shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Or maybe it should hurt more, except there’s no room left for minor stab wounds, around the larger gaping hole in his heart. He’s made James bleed.

Of all the possible endings of the world, he’s realizing, that’s the worst. And it’s already happened.

If anyone else had even thought about hurting James, he would have hunted that person down and proceeded to explain, graphically, the consequences of such an idea. James being hurt is…unthinkable.

Of course it is. _He_ hasn’t ever thought of it. And he’s the one responsible.

James is looking at him thoughtfully. Compassionately. Michael knows, now, exactly what it means to want to die.

“Well,” James says, and shrugs, “twenty minutes, then. Since you’re all outvoting me. In that case, though, we should go. Elevator?”

“Um,” Michael says, intelligently, and trails after the hair and the eyes as they wander into the closest metal cage, where he instantly panics, remembering some of the things he’s done to James in elevators and wondering whether this particular example of the species recalls those things too.

“To be honest, I don’t have a destination in mind.” James studies the rows of buttons, meditatively. “I mostly wanted to get away from the audience. Does nineteen sound like a friendly number to you?”

“…yes?” He’s never pondered the relative affection of various numerals, but he’ll say yes to anything James suggests, at this point.

“Going up, then.” James leans against the wall. Crosses his arms. Might be a defensive posture—James likes to speak with his hands, and he isn’t, not now—or maybe this is an attempt to act nonchalant. Michael backs up, until he encounters the unyielding handrail on the other side.

“Don’t worry,” James says, looking somewhat amused. “I’m not planning to take Kevin’s castration idea to heart.”

“You should.”

“Oh, really…you wouldn’t want that. I imagine it’d be painful. For both of us.”

“I—you—why painful for you?”

“Because, amazingly enough, I care about you.” James unfolds his arms, and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and messy. “I know you weren’t trying to—to hurt me. You’re not really a supervillain in disguise.”

“I’m…not?”

“Well, unless you are, and you haven’t told me. Which of course would make sense; you’d not want to tell anyone, if you were.”

“…I’m very confused.”

“But still not evil. Which I think was my point.” The elevator slows, stops, chimes at them; James peels himself up off the wall and heads out, into the depths of the hotel. “I feel like walking, I think. Not standing still. Come explore the nineteenth floor with me?”

“Um…yes?” Of course James feels like exploring. James likes to be in motion; Michael’s seen that enough times, James on the phone, chatting to people, bouncing around the set, holding conversations with his entire body. James communicates with eyes and hands and every inch of that compact frame, and the words are always sincere but they’re only ever a small part of the exchange.

James gives his entire self to the person with whom he’s sharing the moment, even when he’s just talking. James has given him everything, and Michael hasn’t been listening.

Every step makes that jagged hole in his heart grow deeper.

Every step probably hurts James, too. James, who, that morning, had been bleeding.

They discover the end of the hallway, and an unhelpfully blank wall; there’s also a door, and James lifts eyebrows in Michael’s direction. “Stairs?”

“You feel like…going up more?”

“Oh, why not.”

They climb the stairs in relative silence. No windows break up the unrelenting monotony of white-washed walls and sharply-cornered handrails; the lights are bright, though, and the steps are carpeted, and their feet make very little sound. They might be the only two people in the hotel. In the world.

James must get tired of climbing, after a while, because he pauses and nudges open another door. “I did say exploring, didn’t I?”

“I thought you wanted to talk. Why am I not evil, again?”

“I did. And you’re not.” James holds the door for him; ocean-current eyes rest on his, not without understanding. Michael flinches, under the weight of that gaze. The _lack_ of accusation is an accusation in itself.

He stares down at the carpet instead. It’s brown. A nice, neutral shade. Safe. Nonthreatening.

He’s not nice. Or safe. Or nonthreatening. He’s hurt James. Probably in ways he can’t even begin to comprehend.

“So.” James lets the door swing shut, behind them. “I know you’re not evil because I saw the expression on your face, when you looked at me. Earlier, but also right now.”

“You…Kevin thinks you…you should go to the hospital. And make sure—and let them make sure I didn’t—that you’re not—”

“I’m fine. It’s not that bad. And Kevin means well, but it’s not as if he has any experience with this, either.”

“James, please. If you don’t want to—we can get someone to come here, to the hotel, if that’s easier, if you’d rather—and I can pay for it, if you want, I should anyway—”

“I don’t want you to have to pay for that.” James starts walking again. Michael’s heart breaks, one clean snap, at the first step.

Of course James doesn’t want him to pay for that. James shouldn’t want anything from him.

He hasn’t been walking, because it’s hard to propel limbs with a broken heart. James is getting further ahead of him. He runs, because he has to catch up.

“Please let me—I should—I want to, James. _Please_.” Inarticulate. No fucking _words_.

James stops walking. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because you—you’re hurt and I hurt you and I can’t—I don’t want you to be hurt. I lo—I care about you.” As if he has the right to say _love_. The heavy emptiness of the hallway concurs.

“I don’t want you to pay for things,” James clarifies, “out of guilt. I don’t want you to feel guilty about this.”

“Of course I should feel fucking guilty about this!”

A pause. Their hallway has come to a dead end in front of a new set of elevators. They both stare at blank-faced metal barriers. But at least there’s a window, this time. A glimpse out at sky and sun and open air.

James glances up at Michael. Back down. Over at the window, uncurtained and spilling cloud-interrupted sunshine over the carpet, irregular splashes of light. “You don’t need to. Ah…where are we?”

“Yes I do. And…did you mean metaphorically, or literally? Because either way I, um, don’t actually know.”

This, unbelievably, gets James to laugh. The sound echoes, in the abandoned space. Plays with the patches of sunlight on the floor. “I meant literally. Physically. I’m incredibly lost. We’re on the…twentieth floor?”

“Twenty-first?”

“And I think we’re on the other side of the building…when I said you shouldn’t feel guilty, I meant it. It’s not your fault. I did say yes.”

“You—no, you didn’t. You never did. Not that I can remember. And yes, we are.”

“I also didn’t say no. I knew what I was—what we were—doing. Especially after the first time. So, not your fault. Or mostly not.”

“Mostly yes. It _is_ my fault. Because you—no matter what you think, you weren’t saying yes to being hurt. Or you shouldn’t’ve been. You can’t—James, you don’t think you deserve that, somehow, you _can’t_ think—oh god, you do.” He hadn’t believed that, hadn’t thought that could possibly be true even as he said the words. And then he’d seen the expression change, in those too-blue eyes.

He takes a step back. Runs into an awkwardly-placed side table, along the wall. They both wobble, but neither of them falls down.

“James—say something. Please.”

“Are you all right? That looked like it hurt.”

“Am I—I’m fine, I—but you’re not, you aren’t, why would you think—please talk to me.” He steadies the table with one hand. Can’t do the same for his splintered heart.

The light dims, passing behind a cloud. It’s heading toward sunset, anyway.

“It’s not quite what you’re thinking.” James comes over, soundlessly. Leans against the wall, next to him, propping it up with a fuzzy-sweatered shoulder.

Michael, petrified, can’t even scoot away. He wants to—what if he’s hurting James more, physically, emotionally, every other way, just by breathing next to him?—but James has deliberately put himself there and Michael’s afraid to move or change positions or blink if James doesn’t want him to.

“I’m not…I don’t want you to hurt me. I’m not a masochist, or—into self-harm or anything. I just…you were so unhappy. I wanted you to be happy. And you wanted me, and if I could…be what you needed, somehow, if I could help…I want to help. And that was more important than—if that _was_ what you needed, if I’m what you need, then that’s not even a choice, is it?”

“James—”

“And as far as the physical…it wasn’t—isn’t—that bad. Really.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Kevin talks too much.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because it always stops. Because you’d never have come back. Because you make me coffee, in the mornings.” James shrugs. “All of those.”

“Kevin’s right,” Michael says, when he can talk again. “I should—I think I have to stay away from you. Because you’re not wrong. Or mostly not wrong. I do want you. And I need you. And you have to tell me to stay away, because I’ll end up hurting you. More. Please don’t let me hurt you more.”

“More…” James sighs. Looks as if he wants to say something else, and then doesn’t, after all. “All right. That was part of what I wanted to tell you, anyway. That we need to stop, at least for a while. Because Kevin _is_ right, although we’re never telling him I said that…”

“Agreed.”

“…and if you haven’t been thinking, neither have I. I should’ve told you that I—that this wasn’t how I—I mean, that I wasn’t…enjoying things. I’m not saying it’s my fault—”

“Good!”

“—but I could have said something.” James glances at the carpet, then at the window, then at Michael’s face, and not-quite-smiles. “You didn’t hear Kevin yell at me, this morning, for half an hour, about the importance of self-respect. It was impressive.”

“He’s still not wrong.” He wants to add: and you deserve to be respected, you deserve to be loved, you deserve better than this. Than me. Please believe that.

But he can’t say those words to James, not when he’s turned them all into lies already. At least someone has. At least Kevin has. Maybe that’ll be enough.

“I know he’s not wrong,” James says, and then his mobile phone vibrates, loudly, and they both jump. Michael puts out a hand, instinctively, to keep James from tripping over the same stupidly flimsy side table. This earns a real smile, quick and lucent as the last of the sunbeams, when they pop back out from behind the cloud.

“Speaking of, he says you have two minutes to, and I quote, return me unharmed, or he’s going to have you drawn and quartered. I think he means it; he’s attached some very graphic historical photos.”

“Then we should go. Since we’re on the twenty-first floor. But, James…it’s _not_ your fault. You shouldn’t—I did this. To you. And I’m so sorry.”

“I know you didn’t mean to, you know. I was listening, when you were telling Kevin as much.”

“I’m still apologizing. And I will stay away from you. Whatever you want. But please…I meant it, before, about you seeing someone. A doctor. I need to make sure that you—can you please do that, and let me know?”

The carpet again. Then the window. Then back to Michael’s face. “All right. I will. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“And…you don’t have to stay completely away. I mean…we _are_ friends. I—we’re never not going to be friends. So we can…”

“…be friends?”

“Yes,” James offers, simply, and pushes the button for the elevator.

Michael says, one more time, “Thank you,” because those are the only words he has left, and he means them, wholeheartedly. And James steps into the arriving elevator, looks back, tips his head, an invitation. Says, “Well, then, come on,” and smiles.  
  
So Michael does.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Michael try to give each other space. But when James gets hurt, the person he wants--the only person he's ever wanted, really--is Michael. And Michael's figured out, now, what the only important piece of his life really is. Protective Michael, bandages, fear, hurt/comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slight extra warnings here: this chapter contains attempted--not achieved--non-con (someone else, not Michael, tries something with James, not successfully because James, even scared and slightly drugged, can take care of himself). Also, James calling Michael in the aftermath is kind of terrifying for me, and I wrote it! Chapter heading courtesy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Modern Romance".

Nine: _this is no modern romance_

James doesn’t know the name of the man who tries to drug him, and have sex with him, at the bar.

He knows who the man is, of course. One of the interviewers, from that afternoon. Blond hair. Plastic smile. Unnaturally white teeth. James hadn’t really liked him at the time, and so had made an extra effort to be polite, because he’d not wanted to be unfriendly. He’d been enthusiastic about the movie, and about Michael, and they’d all smiled and left happy with the footage, or he’d thought so, then.

He hadn’t enjoyed the hand on his shoulder, afterwards, or the way too-light eyes had studied him, sizing him up and saving the measurements for later, but he’d been professional, and Michael had been there too and whatever else they might be, now, they were, cautiously, friends. Michael’d looked at him protectively, and had done most of the talking. James had been grateful.

Michael’d ensconced himself at the other end of the bar, chatting with Zoe, after they’d finished for the day. He’d been drinking a single beer very slowly, and determinedly not looking at James except for when he clearly believed that James wasn’t looking back. James had been annoyed by the avoidance, and then hurt, and then annoyed with himself for being hurt. Michael was only doing what he’d promised to do. Staying away, especially in any situation involving late nights and alcohol. Giving James room. Being a friend.

It’s a warm night. Unseasonably so. The air is cloying and sticky, and clings to his skin. Like the knowledge that he’s just made a very poor decision.

He’d hung out with Kevin and Matthew for a while, unwinding from the demands of the day, pointedly ignoring Michael ignoring him, and had almost decided to leave and find his bed, but as he’d walked past the bar a semi-familiar voice had offered to buy him a drink. Michael had glanced up at the sound, and then noticed James noticing and snapped his head away, and so James had said “Yes” out of pure frustration.

He’d wanted to kick himself the second he realized who it was, but he’d already agreed, and he’d thought, one drink, between professionals, in a crowded hotel bar. No harm. Nothing more than temporary uncomfortable silence. Besides, he felt bad about the instinctive dislike, and he didn’t want to be rude.

Should’ve listened to those instincts. They’d been good ones.

He’d paused to check his phone, distracted by a text from his sister, mocking him about his latest answer to the standard superpowers question. Hadn’t been watching his drink. And he had been thirsty, and pondering the merits of giving up and getting very drunk in the hope that then his heart wouldn’t hurt quite so badly, and he’d finished more than half of the glass, and then he’d seen the smile.

So fucking stupid. He knows that these things happen. He’d just never thought they’d happen to him.

He slides off the bar stool, heart pounding, hopefully not audibly. Says, searching for casual, “Oh, sorry, it’s getting late—” It isn’t.

“—and I promised I’d call her back, I mean my sister, sorry, so I should—” He hasn’t promised Joy anything, hasn’t even answered the message.

“—anyway, thank you, I’ll, um, see you, yeah?” And he leaves the last third of that treacherous drink on the bar and takes a single step in the direction of the door, and a hand lands on his wrist.

“I don’t think you should be alone,” say the teeth, “not after what you’ve had to drink, tonight. I think I’ll walk you back to your room.”

James says, horrified, “No,” and then loses his balance when the hand jerks hard on his wrist, twisting it. He gasps in pain and the teeth say, cheerfully, “You don’t want to make a scene in here, do you? Anyway, no one’s going to care,” and when James looks around Michael’s got his back to them and Kevin and Matthew are laughing about something and none of the other patrons are noticing anything.

“You have such pretty eyes. But I’m sure you know that, with the way you look at everyone. The rest of them would be happy to take you home, too, but you said yes to me. Come on.” One more tug, and the unbalanced feeling isn’t merely from that; whatever was being hidden by the alcohol, it works perilously fast.

Michael hasn’t turned back to face him and the bar is growing dark, unless that’s his vision, and James is devastatingly alone. No, that’s not true. He’s almost alone, with one single, overwhelming, malevolent, exception.

He manages to stay upright, at least, though he’s not quite sure how or when they make it to the elevators. The ground tips, and lurches, under his feet. Like an earthquake, or something equally apocalyptic. He tries to touch the wall, something solid, and can’t reach anything other than the body next to his. When the arm goes around him, a parody of comfort, he can smell vodka, and sweat, and cheap cologne, and his stomach twists.

“Don’t worry, it’s not going to last that long. Long enough for us to have some fun, though. This floor. Out you go.”

As they stumble past blurred doors, one of them opens. The girl who pops out doesn’t look in their direction, just heads off toward the ice machine, but the grip on his arm relaxes somewhat, out of startlement or perhaps an unwillingness to be seen abducting a relatively famous actor in front of witnesses.

And James, not pausing to think and certain he’s only going to get one chance at this, pulls his arm away and hits back. With every bit of strength he has.

Through some benevolent deity’s good wishes, or only sheer luck, because he can’t aim at all at the moment, his fist connects solidly with a nose. Which crunches. And bleeds. And then that other body howls and staggers back and runs into the wall and falls to the floor.

James also yelps, because his hand hurts. Of course it does. He’s just punched someone in the face.

He blinks at his fingers for a second. There’s blood on them. The smudges whirl, eerily, in front of his eyes, flirting with the freckles.

He shakes his head, which doesn’t help. The idiot on the floor says something that’s probably meant to be “You broke my nose!” and James tries to talk, can’t, kicks him once—hard—and then runs back toward the elevator.

Or attempts to run. The adrenaline helps, but the floor is lurching under his feet. He hits the button and waits for the lift, even though every cell in his body is screaming at him to keep running. But he’ll never make it if he tries to take the stairs. And no one will come looking for him. He knows that, too.

He keeps his back to the wall, for support, for security, the knowledge that no one’s going to sneak up behind him from that direction at least. Stares down the hallway and watches, but the other man doesn’t come any closer, though when he sits up and groans James’s heart jumps and skitters inside his chest.

The elevator lets out a pleasant little _ding!_ of arrival. He falls inside. Wants to say thank you, as it takes him away. He can’t quite talk yet, so he settles for patting the wall, as he leans against it. It curves back into his hand like an appreciative cat, or maybe that’s only his imagination.

He needs a few attempts to figure out which button means his floor. He’s fairly sure he gets the right one, eventually.

He doesn’t let himself collapse onto the ground, once it’s going up. He could. But if he does he might never get up again.

It is the right floor. And he holds himself together while walking down the hallway and around the corner, and while he fumbles for his card key with his left hand because his right is throbbing. He doesn’t cry or pass out or scream. Just slips his card in and out and pushes the door open and makes it all the way into the tiny sitting room before his legs give out and he lands on the carpet at the foot of the sofa, trembling everywhere.

He’s not crying, even now. He’s not sure why. He’s very, very cold, and he wants to turn up the heat, but he can’t seem to move.

His hand hurts. Quite a lot. Funny, that. Every other part of his body seems to be numb.

Shock, he self-diagnoses, distantly. Understandable, given the circumstances. Oh, and the drugs, of course.

If he could stand up, he could get to the thermostat. Or at least get himself a blanket. That would be a good idea. The problem is the practical application.

He could call someone. He probably should call someone. He probably shouldn’t be alone. And if he calls someone, that person can bring him a blanket.

He finds his mobile phone, where it’s been lazily nestled in his pocket the entire time, unaffected by the evening’s events. He hasn’t been thinking clearly enough to recall its presence, until this precise instant.

Michael, he thinks. He wants Michael. Which maybe isn’t logical, but he does want Michael, because Michael’s the person he’s always wanted more than anyone in the world and still wants now.

Besides, he doesn’t have to be logical. He’s been drugged and nearly—no, he’s not going to say that word, not even in his head—and he’s hit someone out of real anger for the first time in his life and he’s in pain and the walls are twirling loopily. Surely he can be allowed, now if ever, to have what he wants.

He pokes uncooperative fingers at the phone. Michael doesn’t pick up right away, and then he does. “James? What’s—I thought you left with—is everything all right?”

“I’m cold,” James says, because he is. “Can you come bring me a blanket?”

And there’s a musical shattering noise, as if Michael’s dropped something fragile on the other end; his voice says, to someone else, “Fuck—sorry, sorry about that, you can charge me for it later, I have to go—James? Are you there?”

“Probably. What was that?”

“I, um, I knocked over a bottle of—don’t worry about it, it’s not important. James, are you all right? You sound…what’s wrong?”

James ignores the second question, because he has no idea where to begin. “I think…I’m not all right. I’m scared. And cold. Did I tell you I was cold? Because I am.”

“Oh, god,” Michael whispers. “James, what _happened?_ Where are you?”

“I’m…in my room. Or at least I hope it’s my room. The key worked, but the walls are kind of…unhappy.”

“The…walls are unhappy? James, you’re scaring me. And you—you said you were scared, too. Talk to me. Please.”

“Are you coming up here? Because I don’t want to be alone. I don’t think he would—I mean, not after I—I know it’s stupid but I keep thinking I hear him anyway.”

“After you _what?_ And of course I am, I—fuck!”

“What?”

“James, I—I don’t know your room number. Or which floor. Not now. Kevin never told me, and neither did you.”

“Oh.” He has to think about it for a minute, but he did just let himself in, and so he’s relatively confident that the number he gives Michael is the right one.

“Okay,” Michael says, “okay, I’m on the way, all right? Keep talking to me. Tell me what happened. You’re alone, now, right? He’s not—he’s not there, anymore?”

“He never was. Not _here_. Not in my room, I mean. I’m not making a lot of sense, am I?”

“You—you’re doing fine. Just…go on. Please. He wasn’t in your room? But he was with you?”

“Earlier. He—I let him buy me a drink. In the bar. Stupid of me.”

“I know that, I saw that, that was why I—no, never mind. Why was that stupid?”

“Why you what?”

“What? Oh…um…why I was still in the bar. With the bottle of gin. Because you left with someone else and I couldn’t—why did you say you were being stupid, again?”

“Because I was. I knew I didn’t like him. But you were…not looking at me. And I wanted you to look at me, and you weren’t. Looking.” At which point James thinks, but manages not to say, fuck, because he’s just let that confession out into the night, across the connection.

When he blinks, the room fades and dissolves, water over wet paint, smearing all the objects into a single color-drenched haze. He blinks again, and they right themselves, for the most part.

Michael breathes in, over the phone, an involuntary collection of air. As if those words’ve hurt.

“Sorry,” James says, because Michael shouldn’t be hurt. “Not your fault. You didn’t know he was going to drug me.”

_“What?!”_

“Oh…that wasn’t how I meant to tell you, sorry…”

“James—oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m so—are you—of course you’re not all right—did he hurt you? How badly are you hurt?”

“I fought back,” James informs him, because it’s important that Michael knows this, but Michael obviously misunderstands, because there’s a choked-off  noise, and then silence, and when Michael speaks again his voice sounds broken.

“Of course you did—I know you did, I know you wouldn’t let that happen—I’m almost there, I promise, and I’ll take care of you, we can get you to a hospital, or something, anything, whatever you need—”

“My hand hurts,” James says, and then realizes that’s not going to help much without any context. He means that that’s all, that he’s not hurt anywhere else, that Michael shouldn’t be interpreting his words the way that they seem to sound, but when he tries to make that sentence make sense in his head he has to give up for a while.

He stares at the sofa. It more than likely _isn’t_ slowly rippling up and down, in reality, but that knowledge doesn’t precisely help. Drugs, he thinks again. From all the evidence, extremely effective ones. At least he’d not finished the drink.

For the first time, he wonders how fast he’d’ve been unconscious, if he had. Might’ve been an improvement, versus the sight of the nauseatingly unstable furniture.

He can barely hold the phone, now. He can hear Michael’s voice, on the other end, but the words aren’t quite cohering, in his head.

He does know the second Michael reaches the door. The handle rattles, uselessly noisy. “James?”

When he tries to answer, it’s not loud enough. Michael sounds frantic. So do the accompanying thumps on the wood. “James! James, say something!”

His unassisted voice isn’t going to work. He picks up the phone again, on the second try. “Michael?”

“Oh thank god—James, where are you? Can you—it’s me, at your door, can you let me in—”

“Um…I’m on the floor. Next to a very disconcerting sofa. And I know that’s you, I just can’t quite…stand up.”

There’s an appalled silence, and then Michael breathes “Oh, fuck,” into the phone, and then, “James, please. I can’t—I can’t come in and help you, unless you let me in, all right? You asked me to come, remember?”

“Of course I remember.” As if he’d forget. “You got here very fast, too. Thank you.”

“I—no, I didn’t—James, listen, I think I should call someone—the police, or—”

“No.”

“James—”

“No. I don’t want—I don’t want to have to—I can’t. No.”

“Fuck,” Michael says again, and then says several more words, not all of which are English but most of which are profane. “Okay. All right. I’m not calling anyone, or not yet, but you need to—I need you to stand up, to open the door, okay? Can you stand up?”

James eyes the sofa, from his position on the floor. It calms down, as he fixes it with his gaze. Holds out a supposedly trustworthy arm, in support. “Possibly yes? Also I don’t think the door appreciates some of your suggestions. It’s looking very unfriendly from here.”

“James…”

“Sorry. Joke. Not a good one. Yes, I can stand up. I am.”

“All right. Good. That’s…good. Can you walk over here? To the door?”

“Um…hang on.” This might prove a bit more difficult, since he can’t really feel his feet, but there’s a very nicely cooperative wall beside him. Between the two of them, plus Michael’s worried voice, they make it work.

“Are you here? Keep talking to me. Please.”

“I…think so, yes. Why are the doorknobs made out of metal? This one feels cold. I don’t think it likes me.”

“Jesus,” Michael says, voice shaking. “James…oh, god. I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s cold, but I need you to turn it, okay? Just this one last thing. You can do this.”

“Okay,” he says, in response, and pushes on the door handle, and then backs up a few steps in case Michael comes flying through it, and then loses his balance because backing up is currently a tricky proposition, and ends up in more or less the same spot of floor where he’d started.

Michael doesn’t shove the door open, no doubt aware that James might be directly on the other side. But he does make it across the room so quickly that James doesn’t even see him move.

Familiar hands reach for him; those long fingers, warm when they touch his chilled skin, find his face. Lift his chin, a little too roughly, out of concern. “James? Look at me. Can you look at me?”

He tries. Shuts his eyes. Tries again.

“Focus, James. I’m right here, I—can you—oh, god, your eyes, you look—what did he give you? Do you know?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t finish it, though. I…guessed. When he smiled.”

Michael curses in at least two languages. Holds him more tightly. “James, are you…oh, no, wait, should I—should I be touching you? Are you—how badly are you…hurt?”

“I’m not.” But the hand he sets on Michael’s arm in an attempt at reassurance is the bloodied one, and he only registers the mistake when Michael’s face goes white.

Michael lifts the hand, exquisitely gently, cradling it in his. Turns it, studying the emerging bruises, the drying spots of red. Swallows, and the muscles bunch, along his jaw.

“It’s fine,” James says, and Michael closes his eyes, as if his heart is breaking. Opens them again.

“It’s not fine. You’re not fine. Please—please tell me how bad it is. I can—I don’t know what I can do, if I can help you at all, I know I’m not the right person for—but I’ll do anything, James, I’ll be here for you, I swear. Whatever you need from me, that might be—whatever you need.”

“It’s not,” James says again, very carefully, because he’s afraid he’s going to cry at last, and he lets himself lean into the protective circle of Michael’s arms, as they close around him, “it’s not what—it’s not as bad as you think. I promise. He didn’t—it didn’t—I’m all right. Or at least I’m not…I’m not hurt like that.”

“But you—your hand, you’re bleeding—”

“Yes. And I’m kind of…very cold. But that—the hand—that’s not from…what you’re thinking. I might’ve…broken his nose.”

“You…what?”

“At least I think I did. I’ve never hit anyone—in real life, I mean—before. It hurts, to hit people.” He looks up, at Michael. Blinks again. “Are you…you’re crying. Why’re you crying?”

“James,” Michael says, shakily, and stops, swallows, shakes his head. “You’re incredible. You don’t know—oh—oh, you’re looking at me. Your eyes look better. Not good, but more…focused. Are you…”

“I think it’s wearing off. Or starting to. There’s only one of you staring at me now. I could probably stand up, if you want to get off the floor.”

“Don’t. Don’t rush things. I can pick you up, if you want to move.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—oh—okay, maybe you do, sorry—”

“James—! Look at me, come on, you can, you _can_ ,  please look at me! You—I’ve got you, I’m going to put you in bed, okay? And you’re going to let me put you in bed. And don’t apologize!”

“Sorry…”

“Stop that.” But Michael’s hands are reassuring, easing him down into the pillows, testing his pulse, checking him for other injuries. He can feel the concern, can see it in those eyes. It wraps around him, and comforts him, even more than the kindly bed.

“He said it wouldn’t last all that long. Just long enough to…have some fun.”

Michael mutters something very obscene, at that.

“I didn’t know you knew that word.”

“I didn’t know _you_ knew that word. Feeling any better, yet? Warmer?”

“Maybe a little. Tired…”

“I know. I know you are. I’m sorry. But I think—I don’t think you should go to sleep yet. Not while your eyes look—stay awake and talk to me for a minute. Please.”

“Um…all right. You were drinking gin? In the bar?”

“Well…I was sitting next to the bottle of gin, in the bar. I wasn’t—I’m not drunk. If you were trying to ask about that.”

“No. I know you’re not. You answered, when I called.”

“Of course I answered. I’ll always answer when you call. I—James? Eyes open! Please!”

“Oh, very forceful of you, impressive…”

“It’s only impressive if you listen. What about now? Better?”

“Kind of thirsty…”

“Okay. Don’t move. I’ll be right back. And stay awake!”

The water helps. It’s not too cold, and soothingly comprehensible, and clean, when he swallows. “More?” Michael moves the cup, so he can answer; James nods, and lets Michael bring it back to his lips. “Thank you.”

“Don’t say—um, just tell me when you want more, okay?” Michael sets fingers on his arm, gently. “Can I clean this up? I mean your hand. I—you—I do need to know how bad this is. Does this hurt?”

“Um…no. But I’m probably not a good judge of that right now, considering…”

“…fuck. All right. Can you move your fingers, at least? Wiggle them for me?”

“Like that? Also, ow, okay, that does hurt. But I don’t think I’ve broken anything. They still move, see?”

“…did you just draw a happy face on my arm?”

“Yes?”

“ _James_.”

“I thought you needed to smile. Because you’re taking care of me. And I appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, either. You shouldn’t have to—that should never be a—of course I’ll take care of you!”

“I can’t apologize, I can’t say thank you…am I allowed to tell you you’re being a good nurse? Because you are. You know, if you ever need a secondary profession…”

“Are you _sure_ those drugs’re wearing off? Because—”

“No, that was just a normal sentence, sorry. Trying to make you not cry. Is it working?”

“Sort of…Do you have a first-aid kit, or anything? We should at least…do you have ice, in here? I could go—oh, no, never mind, that was a stupid idea, I’m not leaving you. Not even for a minute.”

“You can. If you think we need things. Just…come back, all right?”

“James—”

“Quickly, maybe?” He tries for a confident expression. He’s one hundred percent sure it isn’t working, but Michael sighs, giving in. “Not because I want to, or because I’m convinced you’ll be all right, but you need something, for that. I’ll be right back, okay?”

James nods. Michael scrutinizes him for a few more seconds, neither of them moving from the bed.

“I’ll have my phone. If you need anything, or even if you just want to talk, call me. Please.”

“In the next five minutes? I’ll be fine. But…”

“I know. I’ll hurry.” Michael squeezes his other, uninjured, hand, briefly. Gets to his feet.

“Wait!”

“What—is something wrong, what do you—”

“No, it’s not that, sorry.” Those pale eyes seem skeptical; James says, as firmly as he can, “I’m all right, I _am_ , I only wanted to say, you should take my room key. So you can get back in.”

“…oh. Thank you.” Their fingers meet, over plastic. It shouldn’t be a life-altering moment, but it feels like one anyway. Room keys and promises and trust: those are all real.

Michael comes back in precisely ten minutes and seventeen seconds. James is trying not to watch the clock, and succeeds for the first four minutes, and then can’t resist. As the seconds tick by, he starts hearing the silence more loudly, as it expands into every corner of the room.

It’s oppressive. Heavy. Like a hand on his wrist, on his shoulder, vise-tight and cruel.

The curtains are closed, shrouds over the window, and he can’t see anything except the walls and the lamplight and the memories, and he can’t hear his own heartbeat, all the noise muffled by the ironclad knowledge that he’s alone.

The time skips ahead again and the door clatters in its frame and James flinches and almost falls off the bed and then can’t make any of his muscles obey his commands.

The bedroom door is at the wrong angle; he can’t see the person advancing into the suite. He knows it’s Michael, it has to be, who else would have his room key? But knowing that isn’t the same as believing it, not until Michael steps into view around the corner. “James? I know that took longer than I— _James!”_

Everything goes flying onto the closest surface, ice and what might be bandages and that room key, and Michael dives onto the bed and puts both hands on his shoulders, urgently. “James, it’s me, it’s only me, I’m here, I’m so sorry—did something happen? Did he—are you—look at me, James, please!”

“Michael,” James says, because Michael _is_ here, has come back, and those hands are real and so he doesn’t have to be alone. And then all the tension breaks like discarded glass, and he collapses into tears.

“Oh, god,” Michael says, and holds him, and James lets himself be held. The tears empty themselves out eventually, leaving dry lakebeds behind, drained and abandoned.

He murmurs, once he can talk past the scratching lines of salt, “Thank you,” and Michael breathes out, one hand cradling James’s head against his shoulder, soothingly present. “I’m so sorry. I knew that was taking too long, but I ran into one of the hotel staff, and she asked what I needed—I asked her for a first-aid kit, I thought—but you aren’t all right, are you, I should never have left. Did something else happen, or—”

“No. It’s only—I was—it was too quiet, and I couldn’t breathe, for a minute, I just—can you open the curtains? Please?”

“You couldn’t breathe? James—” Michael’s fingers coax his head up, and their eyes meet. “I can, about the curtains, but first I want you to sit up. Deep breaths. Please. I’m here, and you’re here, and you’re safe. I said I’d take care of you, remember? You called me for help. And I will. Help. For as long as you want me here.”

James nods again, looking into apprehensive eyes; Michael bites his lip, and finds a pulse, with one undemanding fingertip. “I don’t like how fast your heart’s beating. Are you sure I can’t call someone to look at you?”

“Publicity,” James protests, and Michael shakes his head, agreement and argument all in one. “If this gets any worse…”

“If it does, then you can. But I don’t want—I just want to stay here. With you. Window?”

“Oh—sorry. I have to let go of you, for a minute, if you want me to do that. Is that all right?”

“Yes. I can still see you from here.”

“All right.” Michael relinquishes him into the embrace of the bed, with some reluctance, and then gets up; the starlight, released from captivity, glitters in and makes itself at home. It’s not all that brilliant, competing for space with all the city shine, but the world is wide and bright and the walls aren’t closing in as badly anymore.

And Michael’s here. Really here, for him. Offering help, unconditionally, unhesitatingly. Michael _has_ helped, already. That’s as true as the comfort of the open window, the ache in his hand, the caring plushness of the bed.

He wanted Michael, and called Michael, and Michael came.

“…why’re you smiling?”

“Am I?”

“A little. Um, this might sting, sorry.”

James doesn’t let himself say ouch, even though it does. “That’s not that bad.”

“No, it’s not. Oh—you meant me cleaning this. Good, then. But this isn’t that bad, either; I think you mostly just bruised it. And the scraped knuckles. What’re these from? On your wrist?”

“Um…in the bar. I tried to leave. He twisted my arm. Literally.”

Michael’s hands falter, then go back to pressing fresh cloth over bloodied skin. “I’m so sorry. I was—I thought you’d want space. Time. And I was trying to give you that—”

“I never knew you were secretly a Time Lord.”

“Do you have to make Doctor Who jokes? Now?”

“Yes. Oh…that’s cold.”

“That’s ice. It’s supposed to be cold. You can make Doctor Who jokes if you want, then. I won’t get any of them, but that’s okay.”

“You’ve no appreciation for the finer things in life,” James says, as loftily as he can from his current position, and Michael looks up from bandages for a second and answers, quietly, “I do now,” and James finds himself unable to say anything at all, no attempts at teasing or comforting humor, in the face of that unadorned honesty.

Michael offers him water again and fishes the extra blanket out of the closet and drapes it over his shoulders when he shivers, and sits back down beside him, rubbing his back in careful circles, no pressure, only encouraging rhythm and repetition. The world is still silent, but it’s a warmer kind of silence, now. The stars and the sheets and the placid furniture hum with it.

He remembers that very first night, another hotel bar, another aftermath, other bruises. Himself finding that extra blanket, in the closet. Putting blankets over Michael, in bed, and choosing to stay.

He can tell, without asking, that Michael’s remembering the same thing. The hand on his back slows, uncertain, and fingers linger in place behind one shoulder blade.

“Why did you—why _did_ you call me? I mean…me, James. Not that I’m not—I’m glad you did, I’m so fucking glad you did, you can always call me, but why…?”

“I know what you mean. Um, three reasons. I think.” He shivers again; Michael notices.

“What’s wrong?”

“My hands are cold. And my feet…”

Michael shakes his head, and James doesn’t know what that means, but then Michael’s off the bed and in motion again, and then back. With socks. And a mismatched set of James’s fingerless gloves, one blue, one grey.

He slides them onto James’s hands, fingers astonishingly tender. Almost reverent, when easing fabric over new bandages, where wool catches and tugs. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s much better, actually. Thank you.” He gazes at his nonmatching hands, after. Not perfect, but they don’t have to be. Definitely an improvement.

“Here,” Michael says, and wraps his own hands around the uncovered tips of James’s fingers, rubbing softly, the friction of skin against skin. “Does this help, too?”

“Yes.”

“You said…you had reasons. Do you want—I want you to keep talking to me, but if you don’t want to answer that—”

“No, I can. The first one…I thought you might…understand. Not like that! Don’t look at me like that. Please. I meant…” He squeezes Michael’s hands, in his, with as much strength as he can summon. After a second, Michael squeezes back. “I meant…we both know how… unfair the world can be. How sometimes people can…get hurt. And the way that something can make sense—but not make any sense—at the same time. Does that…”

“…make sense?”

“Well…yes.”

“I think so. Yes. But…I’m sorry again. For that. Not sorry if that got you to call me, of course not, I’m just—thankful, so fucking thankful, you would—but I’m sorry you had to know that—those things, about the unfairness, about getting hurt. You know those things because of me. So I’m still sorry.” Thumbs skim softly over the back of his fingers; there’s sincerity, and regret, and truth, in the touch.

So James says, quietly, “I did forgive you, you know. A long time ago,” and sees Michael smile, and then blink, rapidly, and then smile again.

“I know. Because you’re amazing.”

“I am not. The second reason…well, that’s related, really. It’s just…”

“You are so. What?”

“You…even when you were…when we were…you weren’t trying to hurt me.”

“I—”

“No, you weren’t. You did hurt me, sometimes. But you didn’t _want_ to. Not like—you only never thought about it. And I could’ve said no. I had chances to say no. I could have punched _you_ in the face. Or other places. If I’d wanted to. You never…took away my choice. Not like this. Not like tonight.”

“James,” Michael whispers, and the heat of it settles into his hair, tangling with the disheveled waves. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry you—I can’t even imagine—what you just said. You should never have to feel that way. Not ever. If I could make this go away, somehow, if I could—I can’t, can I? I can’t fix this. But. You—please tell me what you want me to do. Anything that you want me to do. I’ll do it.”

“You…” He’s not quite sure what he’s asking for. He just needs to know. That someone will be here, will keep him safe—will care enough to keep him safe—if he lets himself fall into the waiting arms of sleep. “Will you stay? I feel…you would…if anyone…you could be here, right? If anyone tried to—would you stay? With me? Please?”

Michael doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does he sounds as if someone’s kicked him in the chest, cracking bone and wounding flesh, someplace inside. “I…of course I’ll stay. I would even if you hadn’t asked, James, I—that wasn’t even—I didn’t think you’d need to—but of course yes. I’m not leaving you alone. I can be here for you. I _will_. I promise.”

“I believe you,” James says, because he does, and Michael inhales, not quite a gasp, and the hands tighten around his. “You…mean that. You trust me.”

“Well, yes.” He yawns, somewhat inadvertently, as punctuation; Michael nearly laughs, or possibly that’s a sob. “Am I allowed to sleep, now? Maybe?"

“Um…look at me for a minute? So I can see your eyes?...You do look better. Okay. Yes. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to collapse in your sleep, or anything.”

“Can you actually collapse in your sleep? I mean, technically, isn’t that impossible?”

“You know what I mean!”

“Yes, I do…”

“James? Are you awake?”

“Not for much longer…”

“You said there were three reasons. That you called me. What was the other one?”

“Oh.” James yawns again. The adrenaline and fright have given way to all-encompassing exhaustion, now, and he doesn’t have the energy to be anything other than truthful. “That’s the easy one, I thought you would’ve guessed…I wanted you. Want you. Simple. I’d very definitely like to go to sleep, now, if you think that’s okay…”

“James,” Michael breathes, gazing at him; James barely has time to register the astounded expression before the tiredness decides he’s put it off long enough, and drags him into the dark.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael, in the aftermath. Holding James's hands. All night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protective Michael, at last. Confessions of love into the air. Chapter heading from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' song "Sweets".

Ten: _if we meet again/ meet and meet and meet and meet again_

Michael sits there on the luxurious hotel bed, propped up by considerate pillows, all night. Leaves his hands wrapped around those short and chilly fingertips. James’d said that was helping, and so Michael’s willing to sit in that spot and hold those hands for as long as James might ever need him to.

He watches dark eyelashes, long and fragile, where they rest over pale skin and tiny confetti-showers of freckles. James doesn’t move at all, in his sleep. Michael doesn’t know if that’s normal for him, or if that’s some residual effect of the drugs, or if even unawake James is now afraid to draw perilous attention to himself.

He ought to know whether that’s normal. He’s spent the night with James, shared a bed. But he’d always tried not to care, then. Had clung to his senseless denial, when he should’ve been cherishing every one of those seconds. He’ll never get to have them again.

Maybe none of those nights had been normal sleep in any case, because James had been in pain and more than likely afraid, then, too.

He’s only here, now, because James has inexplicably chosen him to call, because James is scared and hurt and not thinking straight. James, sober and safe and happy, would never have wanted him, and shouldn’t. He swallows, against the ache in his throat, in his chest.

James, sleepy and truthful, had said the opposite. Said that he wanted—wants—Michael.

He looks at those quiescent fingertips, in his. He wants to believe that. Every atom of his body yearns to believe that. But he can’t. Not now.

James, under all the fiercely protective layers of blankets and pillows, hasn’t changed positions in the slightest. Not even the hair quivers. But he’s breathing evenly, and his face is less horribly pale. Michael pictures that expression in blue eyes, when he closes his own. The blankness of fear, when he’d come back into the room to find James frozen in the bed, not seeing him.

He’d talked James into seeing him, though. Had said or done the right thing, or something close to the right thing, somehow. James had been smiling again, cautiously, by the end. Bandaged and blanket-wrapped and managing to make science-fiction jokes at Michael’s expense.

The night’d been warm, before. Objectively, it still probably is. But James had been cold, earlier, and frightened and wounded, and so Michael finds himself cold, too, inside and out. Some of that’s rage; he wants to find the person who’s dared to hurt James, and commit acts of homicidal and retributive violence. Some of that’s the terrifying realization that, as bad as this is, it could have been much worse.

James could’ve finished the drink, in the bar. Not been able to fight back. Not had the ability to call for help. None of that’s true, but it all might have been.

Some of the coldness is the thought that, no matter what James tries to say, the difference between himself and _that_ person is only a matter of degree. They’ve both hurt James. And this is the result. James injured and scared and having to ask, not trusting that Michael will care enough to stay.

The lights are all still on, in the bedroom. He hadn’t asked whether James wanted them off, and now he can’t. He wants them on, though; he can see James more clearly, in the compassionate golden glow.

It all could’ve been so much worse. And every one of his previous idiotic fears, about sexuality and himself and identifications and labels, evaporates into nothingness, faced with this reality.

He could have lost James. Permanently. Forever.

He tightens his grip on those hands a little more. They don’t react, but they’re here, and tangible, in his. Such a different shape from his own: shorter fingers, a bit broader, ready to jump into motion before they’re asked.

There’s one solitary freckle visible on James’s left index finger, not covered up by the gloves. It winks at him, optimistically.

He says to it, and to James, “I love you, you know,” and of course James can’t hear him, because James is asleep, lost in shock and aftermath and the lingering effects of the drugs. But maybe the universe can hear him. Maybe it’ll understand, somehow. The words are too late and too small and ineffective, not going to change anything, and James will never say them back, not to him, but he needs to speak them aloud, one time. To offer them up, a true piece of the world.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says, and that’s the second time he’s said those words out loud. “And I always will. And I’m sorry.”

The syllables hang in the air, lazily, and keep him company. The room gets a tiny bit warmer, unless that’s only his imagination. Or all the blankets, piled up over James and, correspondingly, Michael’s own feet, on the bed.

Beds, he thinks. This is the first time they’ve ever really _shared_ a bed. And then he has to bite into his lip, because James has been trying so bravely not to make him cry, and he can’t give in now even though James has gone to sleep. It’d feel like a betrayal of all that courage.

So he stays awake all night, feet buried under the mound of affectionate blankets, guarding James’s unmoving form. Warming those fingertips in his.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James, with protective Michael. Pistachio ice-cream, bruises, aftermath, care and comfort, terrible movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we begin all the fluff ever. Title for this chapter courtesy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs song "Let Me Know".

Eleven: _it all feels right with you around_

James sleeps most of the next day. He doesn’t mean to. But he doesn’t feel like getting up, and the bed is happy to oblige, and Michael is there with him.

Constantly there with him, in fact. Michael hardly moves more than a foot away from the bed. Every time James opens his eyes, pale worried ones look into his own.

Michael brings him water, before James can even mention that he’s thirsty, and orders half the room service menu even though he attempts to say he’s not hungry. Michael bites his lip and looks at James as if he might be expiring on the spot; James sighs, and asks whether he can have ice cream, and the next time he wakes up Michael has acquired chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, and also whipped cream.

The curtains’re still open, and light pours into the room all day, traveling smoothly over carpet and polished wood and cozy blankets. It burrows down in the hills and valleys of the sheets as if it’s found a home.

He eats most of a pint of pistachio ice cream, and licks whipped cream remnants off the back of the spoon, and yawns, and Michael smiles again, momentarily, anxiously, and asks whether he needs anything else, and James reaches out without considering too much and takes Michael’s hand. He feels safer, for reasons he can’t explain, that way.

He wakes up enough, at one point, to discover Michael on the phone, talking to Matthew, and then to someone else, and then to Matthew again. He can hear the conversations, if not the individual words, even though Michael is trying to whisper, because Michael hasn’t let go of his hand.

James squeezes his fingers, and Michael says, “He’s awake, I’ll call you later, I have to go,” and hangs up.

“What was that about?”

“Oh…nothing, you don’t need to worry, just rest—”

“Tell me.”

“I, um, I had to—you know we were scheduled to do more interviews, today—”

“Oh, god,” James says, because he does know, but he’s only now remembering.

“I said you shouldn’t worry. I—we took care of it. They’ll reschedule everything. I…might’ve had to tell Matthew…something. No details. I know you don’t want that. And I think he’s telling everyone else that you’re sick. But I did have to explain that it was…serious. I’m sorry. Do you mind?”

“No. Thank you.” He struggles into a sitting position, over the objections of all the pillows. Michael observes the process with some doubt.

“Are you sure you should—”

“I’m fine. I’m just being lazy, now. And taking shameless advantage of you. Is there more ice cream?”

“Of course.” Michael hands it over; their fingers brush, over cardboard and plastic. “How’s your hand?”

“Ah…still kind of sore. Better, though.” Not visibly so, granted, because the bruises have come up on his wrist from the encounter in the bar, and his knuckles are split and aching from the _other_ encounter, but it’s all healing, he can tell.

Healing. Many things seem to be, in the wake of the receding fear.

He looks at his hand for a minute. He hit someone. Defended himself. He’s not proud of it, not exactly, but it’s kind of nice to know that he can.

Michael spots him looking. Frowns. “How much does it hurt? You—I know you said the other drugs were wearing off, but you’re sleeping a lot and I don’t know if I want to try giving you painkillers—”

“It’s not hurting that much. I’ve had worse happen on film sets, before.”

“You have no idea how completely that doesn’t help.”

“Will you relax? Also, have _you_ eaten anything, today?”

“I…”

“Here.” James hands over the end of the strawberry ice cream. Raises eyebrows expectantly. Michael looks at the spoon, then at James, then gives in and finishes off the defenseless pint. Afterwards, he looks slightly guilty.

“I bought that for you.”

“And I want you to eat it with me.”

“You—”

“You have ice cream on your chin,” James observes, because it’s true, and then, when Michael entirely fails to discover where, puts out his own finger and collects melted strawberry from unshaven skin.

They don’t have napkins handy and he likes strawberry, or at least he tells himself that’s why, when he licks his fingertip.

Michael stares.

And James grins, though not outwardly, because maybe, just maybe, that’s healing, too.

“So,” he says, “as long as I’m going to be lazy, can we see what terrible movies are available in here? I’ll probably fall asleep again, I’m warning you now.”

“…what? Oh. Yes. Of course. Whatever you want—do you want the remote? Here.”

“Whatever I want? Are you sure?”

“Yes, why—oh god no.”

“I’ve never actually seen _Jonah Hex_ , you know.”

“James, _please_.”

“Whatever I want, you said.”

“This is punishment,” Michael mutters, “you’re punishing me.” And then settles down on the bed, one arm around James, anyway.

So James says, happily, “Yes, I am,” and puts his head on Michael’s shoulder, and pushes play.

It’s Michael who falls asleep first, in fact. Worn out, James thinks, from the vigilance and the worry and the long dark night and golden day. His head tips onto James’s, and his breath is warm, tugging on strands of hair. But he doesn’t let go, arms holding on as if even in his sleep he wants James to know that he’s there.

James smiles, a little. Michael _is_ there. Sharing his bed. Keeping him safe. And not afraid to do any of those things. Not afraid to care.

The movie is more or less the definition of terrible, but he stays awake through it anyway, and memorizes all of Michael’s most awful lines just so he can gleefully quote them back, when Michael wakes up again.


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kevin is suspicious, James and Michael have an actual honest conversation, Michael apologizes without expecting forgiveness, and James asks for coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heading for this chapter from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Little Shadow".

Twelve: _break of dawn/ take a turn for stars_

It’s later. Heading toward evening, again. He’s gotten James to eat real food, in the form of chicken noodle soup—this had earned an expression that plainly said, _seriously?,_ but Michael’d sat there and held it out pointedly until James had given in—and, a few hours after that, pizza, because James had admitted to being hungry and Michael couldn’t resist plaintive sapphire eyes.

He’d been hungry, too, by then. He’d forgotten about food during those first fear-soaked hours. But James _was_ all right now, or almost. Wanted to eat. Was teasing him. Those hands had held him in place, when Michael’d awakened and panicked and started trying to sit up and apologize. He’d not wanted to fall asleep; what if something’d happened? What if James had needed him?

James had rolled his eyes, and then set his head back on Michael’s chest, definitively, and gone back to sleep. Michael’d taken a breath, eased himself into a slightly more comfortable position, put his arms back around James for mutual security, and let _Wanted_ play on the television out of some obscure sense of revenge.

He’d had to change the channel, though. Couldn’t watch James be stabbed and shot and made to bleed, even when he knew it wasn’t real.

He’s seen James bleed. Has made James bleed. That’s real.

At the moment, James has stopped being asleep, though only barely, blinking eyes like drowsy oceans at him, waking up. “You look very…sort of…solemn. Serious. Pensive. Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. Don’t worry. Were you reading a thesaurus, in your sleep?”

“Maybe. Are you honestly watching the Food Network?”

“I was…I like food. Go back to sleep.”

“Did she just put an entire stick of butter into that bowl?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t look away…oh, no, that’s an ungodly amount of sugar…and now I kind of want blueberry pie…”

“That pie crust has a stick of butter in it!” Michael says, and then wonders where he can find James a blueberry pie on short notice.

At this point there’s a knock at the door. It doesn’t stop even when Michael scowls at it.

James sighs. “You should probably go see who it is…”

“Fine. You…don’t move. If it’s important, I’ll deal with it. If it isn’t, I get to kill Matthew.”

“Fair enough.”

“It’s Kevin. An incandescently angry Kevin.”

“Oh. Really? I’ve never seen angry Kevin.”

“I have. He throws punches. Hard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I deserve it—”

“Fassbender! I know you’re in there!”

“How?” Michael yells back, through the door. Kevin can’t actually hit him through the barrier. As far as he knows.

“We haven’t seen either of you all day, and Matthew says that James is sick, and I know you have something to do with that, so open the damn door!”

“If I did have anything to do with it, why would I open the door?” But he unlocks and swings open said door on the heels of the question, in what he hopes will register as a gesture of good faith.

“James,” Kevin demands, and pushes right past him, stalking into the bedroom, “did he hurt you? Did he—”

“No!” James sits up. But his hair is falling into his face and there’s a crease over one cheek from the pillowcase, and his hand is still bandaged, and Kevin lets out a homicidal growl and spins around to hunt for Michael.

“It wasn’t him!” James tries, which proves wholly ineffective. Michael backs up, discovers that he’s trapped between the wall and all the righteous fury, and says, to James, “I don’t think he believes you!”

“I don’t. James, you don’t need to protect him—”

“I’m not!” At which Kevin looks at James, and then, unpersuaded, back at Michael. “What did you do?”

“He _didn’t_ ,” James protests, and grabs the closest equally frustrated pillow and flings it at Kevin’s head, and then winces, having used the wrong hand.

“James—!” Michael takes advantage of Kevin’s temporary pillow-induced distraction to escape, and then sprints back over to the bed. “How much did that hurt? Can I see? And you didn’t need to do that. Don’t do things.”

“I wasn’t going to let him strangle you. And it’s fine. You don’t have to worry.” But James lets him pick up that hand anyway, holding it in his own. The gesture doesn’t have any medical value—not as if he can see through bandages—but for some reason, when he looks at those fingers resting in his, the sight helps nevertheless.

“Yes, I do.”

“All right,” Kevin says, “first, someone explain to me when the hell Fassbender turned into the good guy, and second, James, are you all right, and what _did_ happen?”

“It was…” James hesitates, searching for words; the fingers, in Michael’s, move restlessly, and then tense again, and Michael says, “I’m getting you ice for that,” and James sighs. “The ice is still cold.”

“And I still think you need it.” He hops up; Kevin studies James, and vibrates with indignation at the lack of informative dialogue.

“He’s been taking care of me,” James offers, quietly. “He’s been fantastic. Honestly.”

Michael has to look over, at that; James smiles, when their eyes meet. “He didn’t hurt me. That was…someone else. Last night. And I am all right; it’s not as bad as it sounds. Or, um, looks. But it isn’t. All right?”

Kevin examines him for a minute. So does Michael, standing there with towel-wrapped ice in one hand, not noticing that his fingers are in fact getting cold, because he can’t do anything other than look at James.

The word that comes to mind is dignity. And maybe that’s an odd choice for all that floppy hair and exuberance, but it’s also true, as James sits there among all the pillows and makes Kevin calmer just by looking at him, blue eyes sincere and wounded and not backing down.

“James,” Kevin says, and sits down on the bed, “who was it? Can you talk about it?”

Michael’s prepared to jump in if James can’t, but that’s not necessary. James does glance at him, though, while talking, and the fingers on the bandaged hand stir as if wanting to be held; Michael comes back to the bed and sits down on James’s other side and gathers those fingers into his, and James relaxes, with the touch.

Kevin clearly observes that interaction. Files it away for future review. But chooses not to say anything that might interrupt the story.

“Anyway,” James concludes, eventually, and shrugs. “I did tell you it wasn’t that bad.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone with a broken nose,” Kevin muses, not directly answering, “with that description…”

“Why?”

“You don’t need to know. You said you didn’t want to go to the police, right?”

“Yes…I’m fine—”

“You are not!”

“—despite what Michael’s going to try to tell you, I am fine, and I’ve already gotten to hit him once—not Michael, I mean, _him_ —and you’re not planning to kill anyone, are you? Because I don’t want you to kill anyone.”

“No. But he might find it very hard to make a living, very soon. Do you need anything? Either of you.” Kevin glances at Michael, who can’t keep the surprise off his face. Since when has Kevin included him in the protectiveness?

“I think we’re good,” he says, after he stops being astonished, “but thank you,” and James, almost simultaneously, asks, “Do you know where we can get pie?” and Michael can’t not laugh, at the eager tone, at the look on Kevin’s face, at the serenely happy pillows on the bed, at the sheer brilliance of the world.

“Pie,” Kevin says, and gets up, shaking his head, but he’s smiling, too. “So you are all right, then. I’ll see what I can do. Will you be doing any of the interviews, tomorrow? Or staying up here and resting?”

“I could—”

“No, and yes.”

“Apparently I’m not going anywhere tomorrow. Maybe the day after?”

“We’ll see.”

“Well…just let me know, when you feel like going anywhere, and I’ll be there.” Kevin pauses, halfway out the door. “I know you have Michael, for now, but…you _are_ hurt, and you might be…I don’t want to see you having to go through this again, okay?”

“ _What_ ,” Michael says, shocked, and gets up, too. “That’s not—that won’t happen. Not ever, James. And you—thank you, I know you mean well, but that’s _not_ going to happen, and what the hell do you mean _for now_ , I’m not leaving him alone ever, for as long as he wants me, so you can—just go. And find him pie.”

“Hmm,” Kevin says, “interesting, I think you do mean it,” and Michael snaps “Of course I mean it!” and shuts the door in his face, with perhaps more emphasis than he really needs, and locks it for good measure.

And then he looks at James.

And then he runs back across the suite, to the bed.

“James, you know that’s not going to happen, right? I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I swear, I do mean it, they’re not just words, I won’t let anyone touch you unless you say it’s all right—not even me, not if you don’t want—can you say something? Please?”

The blue eyes flicker up, and then back down. James doesn’t move out of his withdrawn little ball, legs pulled up beneath guardian blankets.

“James,” Michael says, helplessly.

“I just can’t,” James answers, very softly, “stop myself from wondering why.”

“Because some people are bastards?”

This earns a small, half-amused, half-rueful, glance. “True. But…not what I meant. I meant…why me? This…um, you, also, but don’t think I’m comparing you…it’s only…do I attract this, somehow? Make people think that I want—”

“What the fuck—No!”

“I was thinking…Kevin seems to think it might happen again. To me. And you did say so. The very first time. You said it was me. The way I looked at you. The smile. The freckles. And I—maybe you weren’t wrong, maybe if I…I don’t know. Smile less? Or—”

“No! Oh, god, no. James, I’m so sorry. I’m—I’m so fucking sorry. It’s not you, it isn’t, please don’t ever think—” He’s on his knees, now, on the floor in front of James, who stays curled into the bed and doesn’t react or reach for him or move at all.

“But that’s not wrong,” James says, to the blankets. “He said that, too. About me. That I—what you said. So I thought maybe I should…not smile at people. Anymore.”

“ _No_.” The chill is profound. It goes right to his heart. Through his whole body. He scrubs his hands across his face, presses them together, folds James’s unresponsive fingers into his own. “No, you can’t—not you, James, please. You can’t give up. You don’t give up on people. You make other people smile. You make me smile. If you think that—if you ever think—no, please, you can’t. You’re too strong for that, I know you are, you’re a better person than I ever could be, and if you can’t see that right now I’ll keep telling you but please—”

“You said you could tell that I wanted you. That you knew I did. And you were right about that part of it.” James hasn’t looked up. The fingers wrap around his, slightly, but that might only be a reflex, as Michael’s grip strengthens.

Hopeless, he thinks. This is James without any hope left. No. _No_. He can’t let that be true.

“I wasn’t right. About any of it. That was—I was very drunk and I needed to find excuses, reasons, anything to blame, because I couldn’t let myself believe the truth, I couldn’t face being in love with you, I’m a fucking coward, I’m sorry, and please don’t change, not anything, you’re perfect and you should be smiling always, please don’t give up being yourself because of this—because of me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—please tell me you believe me. Please tell me you’ll never think that again.”

And James does look up, and blinks endless eyes, just once. “Did…you just say you were in love with me?”

He did. He had. Out loud. And that should’ve been strange, but it isn’t. Because it’s true. And he wants to say it again, and then again, as loudly as possible and in every language he knows. Even if he’s so very far past too late, even if James can’t love him in return, he’s not ashamed of the emotion.

He’s a better person because of James. He’ll believe that, and say so, forever. To James. To the world.

Except the wording needs some work.

“I did say that. But, um, that’s not entirely accurate.”

“You’re not in love with me?”

“No! I mean yes. I mean I am. I love you. I’m in love with you, right now. Not past tense. Present. Always. Don’t—don’t say anything, all right? You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to say anything at all. And you shouldn’t. You—if you want me to leave I will, I promise I will, but please let me at least stay until Kevin or someone can come back and be with you—”

“Kevin?” James blinks again. “I don’t want Kevin. Or anyone else.”

“James, I don’t want you to be alone—”

“I’m not going to be alone. You’re going to be here. With me.”

“You…want me to stay? With you?”

“Yes. Please.”

“James…” He’s still kneeling on the floor, holding those cold hands in his. Outside, beyond the open window, the sun’s set. But the city lights have come on, twinkling steadfastly through the gloom. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

“I know,” James says, and one corner of that expressive mouth edges upwards, not yet a smile but the next best thing. “But I want you. So you can stay. And also, um, make me coffee. I’m kind of cold.”

“Anything you want.” He finds one of James’s fuzziest sweaters, first. Eases it over enthusiastic hair. Collects the discarded pillow, the one James’d launched earlier, from the floor and brings it back, where it nestles into place, wanting to help too.

James looks so very small, in the sea of bedding and fluff. Michael has to stand in front of the mechanical blackness of the coffeemaker, and take several deep breaths, before he can get his hands to move, and his voice to work, without shaking.

“Only decaf, okay? I’m not sure you should—I know it’s been nearly a day, but—and anyway you should rest, after this, all right?”

He’s pouring coffee, being grateful that the single-use machine works quickly, and not looking, but he can _hear_ the eye-roll, at that. “I’m fine. Or mostly. I could probably even get up and do interviews tomorrow, if you let me have caffeine again in the morning.”

James wants him to be there in the morning. “Not tomorrow. Maybe the day after. And you’re not doing any of your interviews by yourself.”

“I’m not? I mean…I’d rather not, but…don’t you have your own publicity to do?”

“They get both of us,” Michael tells him, “or neither,” and hands over the cup, but only after he’s topped it with the end of the whipped cream.

James looks at the coffee. Then looks up at him, eyes suddenly bright with appreciative laughter. And—after the space of a single heartbeat—smiles.


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some comforting, some shared closet space, some almost-I-love-you moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angsty schmoop, though more of the latter than the former. Heading for this chapter from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs song "Runaway".

Thirteen: _all along, not so strong/ without these open arms/ hold on tight/ all along, not so strong/ without these open arms/ lie beside_

Michael never leaves his side. Through all the rest of the interviews.

The first one, after much negotiation, happens in James’s hotel suite, out on the couch. James had tried to argue for his own ability to traverse stairways and elevators and meeting rooms; Michael’d said, “Yes, you can, but would you be more _comfortable_ in here?” and James hadn’t been able to lie. Truth is easier, between them, he’s realizing. It always is. And he doesn’t entirely mind Michael worrying about him. It’s a good feeling. Kind of cozy. Like being cherished. It makes his heart warm, inside his chest.

Michael sits beside him the whole time, one arm around his shoulders, the sunlight drifting in from the open window and soaking the room in honeyed gold, and James smiles at the middle-aged woman and her notebook and list of questions. She looks a bit startled to find both of them waiting for her, or maybe that’s trepidation at the untrusting scowl on Michael’s face.

James digs an elbow into Michael’s ribs, hisses, “Be nice,” and then smiles at her as welcomingly as he can. It must be good enough, despite Michael’s unconvincing grimace, because she smiles right back and mentions that her grandkids are fans of Mr Tumnus, and then she positively beams with delight when James offers to write little notes to them, at the end of the interview.

Michael rolls his eyes, but it’s an affectionate motion. James shrugs, in reply. And then grins, because the interviewer is happy, and Michael’s arm is solid and real, and the sunlight’s smiling at them all with unshakeable bliss.

The woman looks concerned, catching sight of his bandaged hand, as he writes. They’re off the record, now, and she says, “Are you all right, dear, you don’t have to do this, honestly, they’ll just be thrilled that I’ve met you,” and Michael mutters, “See?” James shakes his head at them both, and says, “I’m fine, it was an accident, and how do you spell their names, again?”

They both start to stand up as she leaves, and she flutters, “No, don’t get up, please, take care of yourself, or rather, let him take care of you, you’re lucky to have such a lovely partner, there’s not enough love in this world,” and whisks herself out the door, leaving James and Michael to stare at each other.

“So,” James says, after a second.

“So…”

“So…that went…well? Also…you’re lovely. Apparently.”

“Oh, god,” Michael says, but he’s laughing, either out of amusement or horror or both. “Is that…that’s going to happen, isn’t it? People are going to think—”

“Um, yes, probably. Especially if you’re planning to cling to me like that through all the interviews. Do you…if you don’t want to be there, I’ll be fine, this one was easy, I can do the rest of them alone—”

“You’re not doing _any_ of them alone.”

“But—”

“I…might not mind. I _don’t_ mind. I—you know how I feel about you. _I_ know how I feel about you, now. And she’s right about me taking care of you—I _will_ —but she got one part of it backwards. About which one of us is lucky to be here. You really didn’t have to sign autographs for her grandchildren, you know.”

“It made her happy,” James protests, and Michael laughs again, pulls him a little closer, holds on. “If I’m going to be your lovely partner, I feel like I ought to be jealous. I don’t have a personalized autograph from you.”

This time James gets to do the eye-rolling. It’s a more acceptable reaction than his first instinct, which is to lean in and kiss those astonishing lips. Michael’s talking about being his partner. In public. Teasing, of course, in light of all the inevitable assumptions. But nevertheless saying the words, out loud.

“What would you even _do_ with my autograph? I can only imagine the nefarious uses you’d come up with for it. Selling it on the internet, taping it to a dartboard, sending it to one of those places that turns text into toilet paper…”

“Come on, I wouldn’t. Not any of those things. You don’t think I’d do that, with something from you, do you?” And they’re joking, it’s funny, Michael’s still smiling, but there’s something hurt behind those shifting eyes, now. Worse, resigned, as if he thinks that James does believe that, and thinks he understands why.

The pen is lying there helpfully on the table; James wriggles out from under Michael’s arm and picks it up. Then grabs Michael’s closest hand, not encountering any resistance, no doubt out of confusion.

“Ah, James…?”

“Hold still.” When he touches pen-tip to skin, he hears Michael breathe in, once, sharply. He can perceive the sound very clearly, because James himself is, all at once, holding his breath.

When he finishes, Michael gazes at the back of that hand, silently, in the sunshine. Doesn’t speak.

The pen makes a merry little click, when he sets it back down. It knows it’s done its job.

Michael reaches over with his other hand, one long and curious finger, and touches scribbled letters, the loops and lines of James’s name gleaming in the light, over his skin. Murmurs, to the ink, “James…”

“Yes,” James says, “you can read my name, I’m impressed,” and Michael doesn’t laugh, only looks at him with a kind of quiet wonder. “You…this…James, you signed your name on me.”

And it’s a ridiculously obvious statement, of course. But it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like much more.

“You did say you wanted personal.” James puts his hand out, too, and rests it on Michael’s wrist, right under the signature. Part of that hand remains bundled in protective fabric, but that’s all right; the bruises aren’t insignificant, but other things matter more, like the heat of the places where their skin comes together, warm enough to ease all the pain in the world away.

The sunlight pops in, right at the spot where their hands are joined, to point out how strongly it agrees. The rays spill over their arms, seek out the intimate lines of fingertips and wrists and dustings of freckles, and bind them close.

“James,” Michael says, one more time, a name like a prayer, a confession, a revelation.

And then, of course, there’s a knock at the door. The next interview. The next obligation, arriving, breaking in.

It’s not really an interruption, though. Not when Michael holds his hand, or leaves the arm around his shoulders, or presses their knees together, never not touching him, the rest of the day. Not when every one of the three journalists yet to come, that afternoon, glances at their respective poses, and visibly makes a certain assumption. Not when Michael smiles, in response, every time.

No one quite has the nerve to ask the question, possibly because Michael smiling can be rather intimidating, but the thoughts are out there. Insinuations will be happening. And Michael doesn’t seem to care.

And the interruptions aren't interruptions at all, not ever, because that sensation of closeness never goes away.

Over the next few days, they do venture out of the suite and into the rest of the hotel, for the occasional group interview, for a photo shoot that has Michael breathing fire at a hapless intern who taps James on the shoulder without asking. James apologizes to the boy, glares ineffectively at Michael, changes into the theoretically more stylish clothing that’s been provided—while Michael hovers impatiently outside the restroom and terrifies passersby—and puts up with the photo-shoot director waxing ecstatic over his injured hand and the theatrical possibilities of such evident drama and kinetic energy.

Michael, when he can’t be there himself—even the most omnipresent bodyguard occasionally needs a moment to make a phone call—enlists Kevin’s help, and thus James finds himself surrounded, in those moments, by enough fellow cast and crew members to invade a small country. At first it’s kind of touching—they all care, that much—but extremely quickly the appreciation shades into annoyance.

“What’s wrong?”

Michael’s question comes instantly, in response to James’s admission that he’d rather go back up to their room for lunch, instead of letting today’s security detail walk him to the hotel restaurant. Probably he should’ve phrased the statement better. Michael now sounds far too concerned.

“I’m fine, I only meant—”

“You look tired. Are you tired? We can cancel this afternoon’s panel. You can go rest. I can tell Kevin to tell them to reschedule, I knew this was too much for today—”

“I’m fine! A bit sick of everyone hovering around me, to be honest. I know they mean well, but…”

“I—they—we’re all worried, we care about you—”

“Yes, but do people have to care about me when I need to use the restroom?”

Michael laughs, reluctantly; sighs, looks away. His shoulders slump, slightly. “All right. Yes. I’ll tell them to back off. You can take care of yourself. You _did_. And, um, if you want to have lunch alone, if you want space, I can—”

“You idiot,” James informs him, “you’re not everyone. I didn’t say I was sick of _you_.”

Michael stops talking. And joy dawns in those eyes, light over the water. “You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” James holds out both hands; Michael takes them. “Because I’m not,” he says, and smiles. And Michael smiles back, and they stand there grinning at each other under the hotel’s artificial lights, fingers entwined.

Michael calls Kevin and gets the afternoon panel shortened from two hours to one, anyway. James would complain, but he gets to spend the evening cheerfully beating, and occasionally losing to, Michael at Mario Kart, on a rather battered Nintendo Wii that Lucas, Caleb, and Edi had proudly delivered to their room, the day before.

He blames the infrequent losses on the fact that, in the back of his head, he’s contemplating Michael’s astonishing admission, from several days before. Hearing that faded-Irish voice whisper, _I love you. I’m in love with you, right now._

He believes it—he does believe it, he can see it in every motion, every glance, every time Michael finds him water or gets room service to deliver more ice cream or, memorably, stays awake after James has fallen asleep and uses the miniscule kitchenette to bake a tiny and delectable blueberry pie, and brings it in for him in the morning. He just doesn’t know what to do, or say, in return.

That’s not true. He knows what he wants to say. He knows how he feels, too. But there’s something indefinable, some infinitesimal hesitation, some last step he can’t quite take, to say the words.

Michael’s all but moved into James’s suite, now. Neither of them has asked, exactly. Michael’s unwilling to leave James alone, and James doesn’t want him to, and somehow this has translated into Michael’s suitcase appearing in the corner of the bedroom and Michael’s toothbrush on the sink.

Michael hasn’t technically unpacked. Afraid, perhaps, that James will at any moment tell him to go.

James doesn’t want him to go.

Michael loves him. Has said so. And James loves Michael. He always has, and even more so now, when Michael’s acting as caring and devoted and happy as James had once hoped he would be, when the two of them finally came together.

He almost says it. He almost-says it so many times, over the next few days. He stops himself each time.

It’s the memories. It’s the fact that he knows how Michael’s body feels against his, inside his, in the night. It’s the pain.

Michael has changed, since then. James has changed, too. They’re not who they were, all those months ago. They’re better. They’ve made each other better. And he knows that, he does, and he’s so wonderfully happy now that he can’t believe it, because if he lets himself believe it and it doesn’t stay true then he’ll have nothing left. Empty, inside.

Michael doesn’t say the words again either, not out loud, but they’re constantly there, shimmering just out of earshot, in patches of sunlight and the sweet flavor of blueberries and the presence of that lean body beside him, holding him, in bed at night.

Michael only ever holds him. Never tries anything more. Clearly, tangibly, never expects those words in return.

The lines of his name on Michael’s skin blur and fade, and the bruises on his wrist turn from blue-black to yellow-green, and the split knuckles scab over and heal and reveal new pink flesh, and James leaves off the bandages and stops needing to invent new and increasingly outlandish explanations in order to make Michael laugh when the question gets asked, in interviews.

He notices Michael touching the last remnants of the _J_ , over smooth skin, one morning, as they get dressed. The look in those pale eyes is far too sad, and James finishes putting on his left sock and walks over and takes Michael’s hand and traces all the letters again, with a fingertip, and makes Michael smile.

“That’s even less permanent.”

“No,” James says, “more,” and the smile gets wider, chasing the last nighttime shadows from the room.

He almost-says the words again, then, but on the way out they turn into, “You can have half the closet,” and Michael laughs, a little shakily. “Half? Maybe a third, I know how many sweaters you own, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of valuable closet space,” and under that is a question.

“Half,” James says firmly, “my sweaters can make room for you,” and he knows that Michael hears the _yes_ inside the words, in the way that long fingers tighten around his hand.


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they get to try again. First dates, first kisses, hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Header for this chapter courtesy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Modern Things"!

Fourteen: _you can hold me tight/ yeah, on a motorbike/ and we can make some noise/ we can do this right_

“Dinner,” James says.

“What?”

They’re sitting exhaustedly in the last of the interview chairs, alone for a moment while cameramen and clean-up crews clatter around them, ebbing and flowing and making cheerful noise. The chairs shouldn’t be comfortable, being the cheap canvas variety, but they offer much-needed support after the long day, and so none of them wants to move just yet.

“Food,” James tries this time. “You. And me. Dinner?”

“Oh…sure. Hotel restaurant, or do you just want room service? If you’re tired?”

James sighs. Glances up, at the half-dismantled lighting arrangements, then down at his shoes, and then at Michael again. “Okay, one more time…would you like to go somewhere, not in this hotel, and have dinner? With me?”

Michael opens his mouth, and then his brain processes that statement for what it is, and so he just stares.

James glances down again. Brings up a hand, and rubs the back of his neck, awkward and a little embarrassed. “Um…all right, then, never mind, it was stupid—”

“Oh god yes!”

James now looks a little taken aback by the vehemence. Michael remembers how to breathe, and tries to dial back the eagerness somewhat. It’s difficult. “Yes. Definitely yes. Ah…wait, you did mean…you were asking…this is a date, right?”

“Yes,” James says, and laughs, blushing. “Yes, it’s a date. You, and me, on a date. If you, um, want that. I do.”

“You have no idea how badly I want that.” All the exhaustion’s sparkled into anticipation, now, glittering like the lights, under his skin. He gets to go out with James. On a date.

This will be the best date anyone’s ever imagined. He decides that on the spot. Of course it would be anyway, but he’s got a lot to atone for. And he will. Starting now.

“So,” James says, “I didn’t actually have anywhere in mind, I was so nervous about asking you that I kind of forgot that detail,” and Michael grins, because that’s going to make his tentative plans much easier.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, “I have some ideas,” and James raises his eyebrows. “Should I be alarmed?”

“No. And when we get back to the room, you should…go shower. So I know you’re not listening when I’m on the phone. And, um, dress nicely. But not _too_ nicely. Not that you don’t always look nice. Never mind. You’re perfect. Okay?”

“Slightly confused, but thank you for the compliment?”

And Michael laughs, because James is smiling, and says, happily, “They’re good ideas, I promise,” and then, once he’s convinced that James really honestly is in the shower and not eavesdropping, proceeds to make a series of the most important phone calls of his life.

And it is a perfect night. Not flawless—they _are_ both tired from all the interviews and the long day—but perfect regardless. From the moment James opens the bedroom door and Michael freezes in the middle of the mini-kitchen because James looks spectacular, disheveled hair and stylish jacket and jeans that highlight every curve, to the way that James laughs delightedly, when Michael finally recalls how to make words and holds out a just-finished cup and offers, “Gingerbread latte?”

It’s all perfect. Like the expression in blue eyes when James realizes where Michael’s taking him for dinner, which prompts a sideways murmur, while they’re in the taxi, of “seriously, you didn’t need to, I know how much you would’ve had to spend to get a table here, I’m not worth that,” and Michael says “Don’t argue, James, you have no idea how much you’re worth, to me” and James blinks, startled, but obviously reads the sincerity in his face, and then leans against him, fitting their shoulders together, in the back seat of the cab.

After dinner, James looks at him and smiles, and Michael says, “Oh, just wait,” and when they end up at a very recognizable theater James smiles again. “Dinner and a movie? You’re feeling traditional?”

“I said you should wait.”

When they walk right in without paying, James raises his eyebrows, and then again when they’re the only two people in their specific room. “What—”

“Popcorn?”

“I—oh my _god_.”

“Surprise,” Michael says, not without a certain amount of satisfaction, and watches James stare at the opening credits of _The Wrath of Khan_ , absolutely speechless. Entirely wonderful. Not the movie, or even the date, though he’s already concluded that that’s wonderful too. _James_ is wonderful.

He spends the next two hours watching James instead of William Shatner, mostly because he’s still marveling at the fact that James is here, with him. Has not only forgiven him, but has been the one to ask him out. On a date. James trusts him.

Amazing. It never won’t be.

About halfway through the movie, James reaches over, without looking, and picks up Michael’s hand, and doesn’t let go.

Back at the hotel, he walks James to the door of the room, considerately. And then steps back. He’s being a gentleman. Proving to the universe that he can. He needs to be. For them both.

Of course they’re sharing the hotel room, and it’s not like he’s not going to come in, but it’s a first date. It _feels_ like a first date. And he’s not going to do anything, assume anything, unless James wants him to.

James tips his head to one side, contemplatively, half-smiling. The hair, disobediently, falls into one eye. Michael’s fingers quiver with the desire to brush it back. He doesn’t have the right. Not unless James invites him to touch.

“Well,” James says, still smiling, “that was…brilliant, actually. And incredibly impressive on short notice. But you know that. Thank you.”

“No, don’t—I mean, I’m glad you…enjoyed the night. It was—it was brilliant for me too. All of it. Thank _you_. For asking.” He backs off another step, in case his hands declare a mutiny and reach for James on their own. They’re considering it.

“Hmm,” James says. “So…we should probably…take this slowly? I mean, I know you’re sleeping here, and all, but…is this officially the end of the date, then?”

“Yes?”

“I meant impressive in more than one way, you know. Everything you did…you being willing to do those things with me. In public. I know that must’ve been hard—”

“Honestly,” Michael tells him, “it wasn’t,” and the smile gets even brighter, then, the sun coming up right there in the nondescript hallway.

“In that case, maybe breakfast, tomorrow? My turn to pay for things?”

“Absolutely yes, but it’s not your turn to pay ever. I think I owe you apologies for possibly the next three years. In the form of breakfast food, if you say you want that. Around eight?”

“Eight it is. We can set the alarm. And, um, three years might be about right, but I think I could let you off earlier. Maybe. For good behavior.” The eyes are teasing him, and James shakes the hair out of his face at last, one cheerful little motion, and Michael says desperately, “All right, eight, and good behavior, I promise,” and then forces himself not to step in a little closer and reach for one mobile hand, as James fishes for the room key.

Blue eyes look up at him, thoughtfully. Sensing all the internal conflict, no doubt.

“You know,” James says, flipping the room key around in those fingers, hand all healed now, not even scars, only bruised and fragile in Michael’s memories, “since this _is_ a real date, and it _was_ brilliant, if you weren’t coming in anyway…I’d ask you to come in. For a drink, or coffee, or something.”

“You…would?”

“I would. I am. Would you like to come in?”

“I—yes. Definitely yes. Coffee?” He’s been more or less afraid of gin, and alcohol in general, for a while, too. Especially around James.

“Then come on.” James even holds the door for him.

Michael walks in. James follows, kicking off his shoes. Wanders into the kitchen; flips on the single-cup-at-a-time express machine. It burbles at them, gaily, part of the moment. The anticipation doesn’t lessen, for being shared with a cheery appliance.

James pauses to find coffee creamer, turns back around, and runs a hand through his hair, and stands there in sock-clad feet on the linoleum floor, and meets Michael’s eyes, and smiles.

“James,” Michael says.

“Yes?”

“If this is the end of our first date,” Michael tells him, and takes a step closer, only one, leaving him time to object or back up or get away, “I would like to kiss you good night, and I never _have_ kissed you, not really, so can I kiss you now, please, please say yes,” and James starts laughing, there in the middle of the tiny hotel-suite kitchen, the scents of coffee and spice beginning to wind their way into the air.

“Yes—”

And he’s been wrong about the perfection of the evening all along. Because he’s never known what perfection means, until now.


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is all the happiness ever. Coming home, rain, togetherness, cookie-baking and apologetic tomatoes, real first times and possibilities, love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done, now! Chapter heading for this installment from the Yeah Yeahs' "Clap Song".

Fifteen: _I want you/ I want you now_

The interviews all end, eventually, and so does the fortnight of publicity, the swirl of media and cameras and journalists and interchangeable backdrops and unvarying questions. James is relieved; he does like people, genuinely so, but it’s been a complicated, and exhausting, two weeks. Normally he’d be excited, as everyone around him gets excited about the film as well, and he is, but along with that he’s glad that everything’s over.

Not _everything’s_ over, of course.

He walks down to the hotel lobby with Michael. It’s raining again. The drops transform the world. Magical. Enchanted. Possibilities, hidden in all the greyness.

Michael rests an arm across his shoulders and James puts his own around that slim waist and they wait for the cars that will whisk them back into their lives. The rain flings itself into the ground, loudly.

If he focuses just right, he can see their reflection in the smoky glass. They look like a couple. Like they’re happy. Like they belong together.

They are. They do.

He leans into Michael a little more closely, and the arm hugs him in response. Michael might be watching the rain, or looking at their reflection, too. “What do you want to do?”

He could say _I don’t know_ , but that’s not true. He knows what he wants, and doesn’t. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Michael puts the other arm around him. They end up face to face, or as near as they can get considering the height difference, and looking only at each other, ignoring the bustle of the lobby, everyone else over by the doors hugging and conversing and waving goodbyes. Beyond the glass, out in the world, the cars arrive, sleek and glistening with water and expectation.

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Michael answers. “I don’t want you to be anywhere I’m not.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not.”

There’s a pause. The rain forms long streamers on the glass, and pools on the concrete ground.

 “You could…come over?”

“I could,” James agrees, echoing the phrase because he loves the way it sounds, and he’s stupidly, giddily happy, all at once, as the syllables splash into the mist. “If you’re asking.”

“Then…I’m asking. Do you want to—”

“Yes!”

“…yes?”

“Absolutely yes. Come on!”

They dash through the rain and jump into the closest car and Michael gives the driver his address and then runs a hand through James’s hair, flicking away crystal raindrops. James smiles, and maybe it’s more wistful than he means it to be, but he can’t help remembering.

“I know,” Michael says, “but—” and then leans forward and kisses him, in full view of the driver and whoever else happens to be looking closely enough to see through the faintly-tinted windows. “Better?”

“Perfect,” James says, definitively, “now take me home with you,” and those complicated eyes light up again, all the unvoiced regrets swept away into the rain.

Michael’s flat is rather like Michael himself: attractive, comfortable, and occasionally goofy. The city view is phenomenal; the furniture’s evidently been chosen for friendliness rather than fashion, as most of it doesn’t quite match, but evidence of the things Michael does care about—sparkling glassware behind the bar, supercar-related magazines scattered on the table, a framed _Magneto Triumphant!_ cover signed by Stan Lee—those all suggest that this is a home, despite how infrequently their schedules allow it to be.

Michael stares around, a little panickedly, and then starts apologizing for what he obviously thinks of as a mess; James laughs. “You’re lucky we ended up at yours, and not mine.”

Michael sets down a stack of magazines, sheepishly, but grins and runs a hand through his hair, after. “Sorry! And…somehow I’m not surprised.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” And then they just stand there smiling at each other for a minute, as the rain chuckles to itself overhead.

“So, um,” Michael says, “there’s sort of…one bedroom. There’s also the couch, if you want, but I don’t mind sharing, I like sharing a bed with you, I like sleeping with you, oh god that’s not what I meant, I’m so sorry.”

“So you’re thinking I’ll be spending the night, then?” He’s teasing—of course he’s going to spend the night, neither of them wants him to leave—but those green-blue-grey eyes go wide with dismay.

“I—not if you don’t want—you don’t have to—”

“I like sleeping with you, too. Do you have any food, or should we order a pizza?”

“Um…I haven’t been here in a couple of weeks, so…maybe pizza? We can go to the store. Tomorrow. What?”

“You said we.”

“I…did. James?”

“Can we have olives on the pizza?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re here.”

And James glances around, at the couch and the magazines and the wide windows, and back at Michael. “Me too.”

A week later, the subject of his leaving has yet to come up.

There’s a break in the rain, temporarily, on the morning of the eighth day. The sky’s overcast, of course, shimmering wetly with the promise of more storms, but for the moment it contents itself with the warning.

They wander out of bed and into the kitchen and Michael starts making coffee and James finds the bread but doesn’t put it in the toaster, because he’s not allowed to operate any appliances until after he’s had caffeine. He’s wearing his own shirt and a pair of Michael’s pajama pants, which are far too long, but the troublesome aspects of this arrangement are more than outweighed by the fondness in that gaze, whenever Michael looks at him. And Michael looks at him often.

However, once coffee exists and he feels more human, he does suggest, tentatively, that he ought to run back to his place for clothes, and books, and to check the mail. It has been a while, after all.

Michael studies him across the table, and then offers, plaintively, “I could come with you…”

“You said you wanted to go to the store, and that I wasn’t allowed to come along, because you’re making dinner tonight and it’s a surprise.”

“I…kind of thought you’d end up coming with me anyway? And sort of…not peeking when I bought things? And yes, I do realize how implausible that is.”

“I feel like I should be insulted, but it’s true.” He finishes off the coffee. Michael lifts eyebrows—more?—and then collects the mug, refills it, and brings it back, and James smiles: thank you. “Honestly, though, I won’t be able to resist looking if I come with you, and I do need some stuff. I’ll meet you back here.”

“I…all right, but…are you sure?”

“This isn’t about me and the groceries, is it?”

“Um…”

“You don’t want me going anywhere alone, do you?”

“…not really?”

And James, looking at that expression, his hands securely heated by the warmth of the coffee mug, the sweet silvery scent of rain hanging in the air, thinks, so loudly he’s astounded Michael can’t hear the words, _I love you_.

He’s thought those words before, of course. But now, right at this second, they’re truer than they’ve ever been.

He doesn’t quite say them out loud, not then. Michael’s putting effort into the evening. Trying to make it something special, for them. And James has never claimed to be anything other than a romantic, at heart, after all.

So what he does say is, “I understand. I do. I know you want to be there. And you are. You’re always here, when I need you. And I do need you, you know that. But we can’t be in the same places all the time, forever. I’m going to have to do things on my own at some point, and I think I can handle going back to my own place for an hour or so, and as far as I know there aren’t any monsters waiting outside the door for me.”

“There might be.” That voice remains forlorn, and James lets go of the coffee with one hand and reaches across the distance of the table and picks up Michael’s fingers in his. “I’ll have my phone. And I’ll text you when I get there, if you want, and before I leave. So you don’t have to worry. All right?”

“No, but you’re not wrong. About doing things on your own. I know me following you around isn’t practical, really, I do know that, I just…”

“I know.” James squeezes his hand; Michael squeezes back. “Neither of us has to go anywhere for a couple of hours, though; movie? Classic Bond?”

“In case I ever need to audition?”

“Maybe, yes. Or I have a secret passion for Sean Connery. It could be that.”

“At least you didn’t say Roger Moore.”

“That’s just hurtful,” James says, and gets up to search through Michael’s DVD collection. And the morning sneaks away, in pearl-grey skies and refilled cups of coffee and flashy spy weaponry and Michael’s arms finding their way around him, naturally, like that’s where they’re designed to be.

They head out the door at the same time. It takes Michael exactly ten minutes to start sending anxious text messages. James rolls his eyes, sends back a reply— _I’m not even there yet, I said I’d let you know, go buy tomatoes or something!_ —and gets a photo in return: a tomato with a sad face scribbled in pen on the red surface, and a small speech balloon: _Sorry!_

At which he laughs so hard he has to sit down on the front steps of his building, at least until passersby begin giving him odd looks, and then he gets up and runs inside and, after a few minutes of searching, sends back a picture of himself standing in his living room, holding up his DVD copy of _300_ , just because.

This time Michael answers with two loaves of bread arranged in what, after some tilting of his head, James decides is supposed to be an obscene gesture, followed by _Seriously thank you though._

_Of course. Will let you know when I’m on the way back. So you can change into your loincloth._

There’s enough of a pause that James wonders whether that’s crossed a line, and then his phone lights up. _What do you mean change? Exactly what I was planning to wear to make dinner. For you._

Once he stops laughing this time, James sends back a series of excited faces _—:D :D :D—_ and then looks around, thoughtfully, at his own apartment.

He likes his place. He always has. It’s not very big, but he’s always thought that made it feel cozy and inviting, or at least it does when he actually gets to spend time there. But right now it mostly feels empty, with the traces of laughter vanishing into the closest corners and messy surfaces. Too quiet. Not where he wants to be.

He’s still got his mobile phone in his hand. He looks at that, too.

“So,” he says, out loud, to the listening walls. “He makes me laugh. And I love him.” And it might be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure the entire apartment approves.

He throws the most important possessions into a bag, collects a few changes of clothing, tosses his mail and a few unread movie scripts in on top, and then stops, having had an idea.

_Nearly done. Need anything? For dinner? Anything you want me to contribute?_

_Only you. Soon?_

_Half an hour, maybe. Miss me?_

_Yes._

And if he hadn’t been in love before, he would be now. The warmth of that single word settles into his heart. Spreads out tendrils like liquid gold, through the rest of him, from there.

When he walks into the kitchen, and starts looking for certain specific ingredients, the apartment’s smiling, too.

The rain’s returned with a vengeance by the time he makes it back to Michael’s building. He beats the worst of the storm, but not by much.

Michael flings open the door and pulls him inside and starts trying to run hands over him everywhere, rubbing away the iciness of the weather, heedless of wet hair and damp clothing and overstuffed bags.

“You said half an hour.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I did end up making a stop, and it’s raining kind of a lot, and—”

“I know it is. You could’ve—what if you’d—wait, you didn’t need to bring anything!”

“Well…that was sort of why this took so long. I thought, if you were making dinner, I should make dessert, so, um, cookies? And also beer. Not that I made the beer. But I got nervous on the way back here, and I thought I should bring something else, so that was why the extra stop. On the way. In case you don’t want cookies.”

“You baked cookies,” Michael repeats, like he’s testing the sentence in the chilly air.

“I do that sometimes.” He’s truthfully a little surprised Michael’s never known that, about him. Or maybe Michael’s astonishment is only at James’s rambling sentences, which, fair enough. “It’s stress relief, or something. I did work in a bakery. And I like cookies. How do you feel about peanut-butter chocolate-chip?”

“…you _are_ perfect. Why are you perfect?”

James raises both eyebrows, instead of laughing out loud. “You haven’t even tried them yet.”

Michael promptly picks one up, bites into it, and then picks up a second one while still chewing, and utters, “Oh my _god_ ,” around cookie crumbs, and James does have to laugh. “Good, then. Do you need help with anything?”

“No. Stress relief?”

“Oh…not like that. I’m not worried about this. I was making my apartment feel better, and I honestly do like baking. When I have the time. It’s relaxing. Seriously, you don’t need any help?”

“I need you to go change and be warm.”

“But—”

“Please?”

“Oh, all right. Can I kiss you first?”

“Yes.”

“…much warmer now.”

“James—”

“All right, I’m going!” He scoops up a cookie for himself, on the way. And doesn’t miss Michael’s eyes focusing intently, when he licks chocolate off his fingers. Perfect, his brain reiterates cheerfully, and the cadence of the rain speeds up. It concurs.

Michael unquestionably _can_ cook. James has been intellectually aware of this fact for some time; he does recall the magical creation of blueberry pie out of the limited resources of their hotel suite, and Michael’s been making dinner for them, most nights of the past week. But there’s a difference between something casually thrown together and a meal that Michael’s spent time on, and James considers himself decent as far as baked goods go but this leaves him in awe.

He admits as much out loud, and Michael visibly blushes, which James finds adorable and immediately wants to see again.

“I did tell you I liked food.”

“You didn’t tell me you were some sort of culinary genius.”

“I don’t have the time to do this—to really make things—that much, and I’m not that good with desserts…”

“Will you let me compliment you? Also, yes you are. I remember.”

“You get to compliment me,” Michael says, “if I get to appreciate you. And the cookies. And don’t touch that!” This last is directed at James’s hands, which have started picking up emptied plates.

“You made dinner, I should clean up…”

“I made dinner for you. And you—think of this as me asking you out on a second date? Sort of?”

James considers this for a minute. “Aren’t we past two dates, by now?”

“Probably. But…I don’t want you to have to do any work, anyway. Just let me make this a…a good night for you. Please.”

A good night. They’ve all been good nights, and he wants to say so, and then hears the words in his head before they come out. They _have_ been good nights. Every night, every day, with Michael, has been good.

Michael’s looking at him through candlelight, and the storm billows against the windows, and James pictures the two of them going to bed together, like all of those other nights, lean body curved around his in the dark, emanating heat and protectiveness and determination like the candle flame. He can taste the memory of kisses when he licks his lips, and somewhere in there he’s made a decision, and he’s sure it’s the right one. Beyond any doubt.

“I have a dishwasher for a reason,” Michael says, clearly assuming that James is about to argue about the dishes, “go sit down for a minute and read one of your scripts, I’ll be right there.”

“You really were worried about me, earlier, weren’t you?”

“You were late.”

“I am sorry about that.”

“I know. And I know I’m overreacting. I’m sorry, too. It’s fine.” But Michael’s continued to not move, only watching him. As if he can’t believe, all at once, that James is here. That this moment, James in his home, sharing his life, is real.

So James stands up, walks around the table, and kisses him, firmly. Until all that disbelief is gone.

“You _are_ overreacting. I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not going to lose me. And you’re also going to stop trying to smother me with text messages, okay? I’m not having this relationship with my grandmother.”

“We’re in a relationship. You said relationship.”

“I think you missed the important part of that statement.”

“No, I didn’t.” There’s a roll of thunder in the distance, because nature plainly thinks that Michael’s words need the emphasis; they both glance at the window, instinctively, and then catch each other looking, and laugh.

“All right. Yes. I’ll behave. No more text-message smothering. I do know you can take care of yourself. And me, sometimes. Like this morning, with the movie and the cuddling.”

“I told you,” James says, grinning, “that was only because I have a lot of affection for Sean Connery, honestly, what makes you think I was trying to reassure you, and also you don’t have to completely not smother me with messages. Sometimes it might be not a bad thing. When it’s justified. When I actually am running late. Fair?”

“Yes. James?”

“Hmm?”

“If we’re in a relationship…am I your…boyfriend?”

“…yes?” And then he has to say it again, so that he can hear it. “Yes. You’re my boyfriend. My _first_ boyfriend!”

Michael, wide-eyed, points out, “You’re mine too!” and the thunder crashes in as if it also wants to make a proclamation, and they kiss to the accompaniment of cloudbursts, overhead.

“So…you did say I was allowed to worry about you, tonight.” Evidently the storm has served as a reminder, not merely background support. “Because you were out in that.”

“It wasn’t this bad, earlier.”

“Still…you don’t need to help me clean up, either. Five minutes? And then there can be more Sean Connery. Or whatever you want to do.”

James by now has several very detailed ideas about what he’d like to do, especially after all the kissing, though Michael’s manifestly not even considering that as a possibility. It’s probably about time for that to change, though.

No. Not probably. Definitely.

“If you say so.”

“That was far too easy.”

“What? I’m agreeing with you.”

“Exactly.”

James sighs. And then, because Michael’s not going to touch a dish until convinced that he isn’t planning to snatch it away, wanders out to the other room, flops down onto the couch, and yells in the direction of the kitchen, “All right, happy?”

“Thank you!” The water flips on; James gives him sixty seconds, and then gets up.

“I told you you didn’t have to help!”

“I’m not.” He’s busy being entranced by Michael’s hands, as they dart through soap and water. Domestic, and confident, and alluring, and he wants them on his skin. Badly.

“Then—”

“I want to,” he says, still watching the hands.

They stop, caught in place. One soap bubble pops, anxiously, in the hush.

“You want to…what,” Michael ventures, after a second, even though, from all the stillness, he knows exactly what James means.

“Sorry. Not quite the right wording. I meant I want you. If you want that—me. If you want me.”

“James…” Michael turns around. Leans against the counter. Starts to cross his arms, then stops, as if startled that his hands are covered in foam. Somehow that moment of bafflement is absolutely ideal, James decides.

He smiles. Leans against the counter, too. Next to Michael. Looks up. “Yes?”

“But…” There’s less than an inch of space between them, and Michael’s gazing down into his eyes, and the water’s running, unendingly bright splashes like anticipation, and Michael whispers his name again through the sound. “Are you…sure about this? You want to…I don’t want to hurt you. Not—I can’t hurt you again.”

“You won’t.” James picks up the dish towel, and hands it over. Michael looks surprised. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

“Oh…thank you. James, I—you know I want you. I mean…no, I shouldn’t say that, should I? Because you _do_ know how much I want you. Please don’t do this for me.”

James rolls his eyes. Takes a step closer, so they’re sharing each other’s space, now, breathing the same air, traces of heat and lemon dish soap and expectation. “I’m not doing it for you. Or, well, partly, I suppose. Because we _both_ want to. I told you that I did, before, um, before everything. And that hasn’t gone away. And if it helps, I didn’t mean to startle you with this. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!”

“Sorry—”

“ _James_.”

“S—all right, then, I won’t. And I won’t apologize for wanting you, either. Or…” He has to look away from those eyes, painfully caught between worry and want, for the next few words. Stares down at the kitchen floor, so unhelpfully flat and glossy, instead. “Or do you not want to? Is this—not how you wanted things to go? Too soon?”

“Oh,” Michael breathes, “oh, _no_ , James, please—” and his voice cracks, at which James has to look up again. And Michael says, “Fuck,” and then puts both hands on James’s shoulders, and they’re warm and damp in places and strong and James could be scared, but he isn’t. Not at all.

“Can I kiss you,” Michael asks, voice uneven, as if he thinks that the answer might be no, as if he expects the world to break apart around them at the words but needs to know in spite of everything. “Please?”

“Of course yes—”

That reply gets cut off, as Michael tugs him in closer, and those lips find his, insistent and determined, but careful, too. Almost timid, fearful of exerting any demands at all. Holding back, James thinks, and tips his head further back, hands pulling Michael down against him, and Michael makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan of desire and bites into James’s lower lip, and then instantly licks the tender spot in unspoken apology.

James considers this for a second, and then nibbles right back. Michael’s lips taste like peanut butter, he decides, or maybe that’s only from the cookies, but either way this might be his new favorite dessert.

Michael pauses in his apparent quest to taste every inch of James’s mouth, looking astonished. “You—”

“What? I liked it when you did it.”

“…you did?”

“Yes?” He tries to catch the hair and coax Michael into kissing him more, but those wintergreen eyes are continuing to resist, troubled. “I did. I promise. And I’ll tell you if I’m not liking anything. I promise that, too.”

Michael sighs. Rests his chin on the top of James’s head, which should probably feel patronizing, but in fact only makes him feel loved. “Are you sure? You didn’t. Before.”

“Well…neither of us was very good at this, before. Talking, I mean. Not sex. Though, speaking of…”

Michael winces. James can feel the guilt. It’s pouring from all those well-honed muscles in waves. “I—you don’t have to. We don’t have to. I’m so sorry, James, I—”

“If I’m not allowed to apologize, neither’re you.”

“But—”

“You want me, right?”

Michael’s answer is succinct, emphatic, profane, and followed by one more coruscating kiss; when he can talk again, James leans into all that warmth and says, “Okay, then, I’m fairly certain that was a yes. And you know I want you. You do know that?”

“…yes?”

“So we’re good. We’ll figure it out. Other people have managed it before now, right?”

“I…suppose so?”

“And we do have the vast resources of the internet. Possibly we could watch porn.”

“I don’t think that’s the purpose of porn.”

“No, probably not. But anyway. We must be able to look some…things…up. Like getting ready for an important role.”

“Are you comparing our sex life to method acting?”

“Ah…maybe not, then. But you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. And…”

“What?”

“Ah…” Michael’s blushing again. Self-conscious. “I might’ve…not because I expected to, I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask—but I needed to, in case we ever—I thought I should—”

“You did do research, didn’t you?”

“Yes?”

“Well, then…show me what you’ve been researching?”

“Are you—”

“That question needs to not be about whether I’m sure. I am.”

“…all right, then…bedroom? Because we’re not doing this in the kitchen.”

“At least not this first time.”

“James,” Michael says, mostly a groan, and all at once they’re down the hall and into the bedroom, where the bed’s waiting for them, half-made because Michael never bothers despite being unnaturally tidy in most other respects, and James—who isn’t tidy in most respects—has childhood-enforced bed-making habits that won’t let him leave the room without at least pulling the blankets up.

It’s a compromise. It’s perfect. And it beckons them.

“Can I…” Michael sets one hand on James’s waist. The touch—a request, not a command—goes straight through layers of fabric and streaks molten fire along his spine. “Would you let me? Please?”

“Yes…” He lifts his arms; shuts his eyes, as those hands lift the shirt, leaving his chest exposed. Through the sweep of cloth, he adds, “but you don’t have to, I can—”

“James…” Michael pauses. They look at each other, James half-naked and fighting a flood of unaccustomed bashfulness. It’s not as if he’s not been naked in front of Michael before. He has. That’s more or less the problem.

“I want to,” Michael says, and the usual melody of that voice is very quiet, but not with any trace of doubt. Only as if the sincerity, the need, is too deep for anything less reverent. “I want to…to do this the way I should’ve, the first time. Every time. To…show you how important—”

“All right.”

“…what?”

“Yes. All right. You can.” He moves one hand. Laces fingers through Michael’s, then guides them to the top button of his jeans, skin-warmed metal welcoming the touch.

Michael takes a breath, unsteadily. Glances at James, then back at their joined hands, and then begins to smile.

Every stitch of clothing disappears with exquisite gentleness. Bit by bit. With care. As if the act, this act, is a form of worship, Michael treasuring each newly-revealed freckle, all the uncharted territory of soft skin. As if it’s all lovely.

In the hush, the thunder makes the windows tremble. Lightning flashes, electric, in the distance, beyond the glass.

James tips his head towards the bed, smiling, too. Not needing to say the words.

When Michael moves to join him, James raises an eyebrow. “I know I’m not the one who’s done the research, but I’m fairly certain we _both_ need to be naked…”

“Oh…you want me to…”

“I want you to be naked now.” He considers that statement for a second while Michael hovers, irresolute, then adds, “Take your clothes off? For me?”

And Michael’s eyes widen: startlement, agreement, unadulterated arousal. The clothes depart with inspiring alacrity.

“Hmm. Possibly I should tell you to do more things. That seemed to work kind of well.”

“James,” Michael says. “ _Yes_.”

“Come here?”

Michael comes back to the bed. Sprawls out beside him, cautiously. Not quite touching. “Like that?”

“No. Closer.”

“Oh…”

“See? This is better. I can feel you.” He props himself up on one elbow. Appreciates, momentarily, all the taut muscles, the flat stomach, the Irish-pale skin. And then decides to appreciate with fingertips, too, not only visually.

Michael says his name, voice shaking.

“I do want you. I mean, you. I mean, all of you…this…” He discovers an intriguing trail of ginger hair. Follows it. Licks his lips, inadvertently, at the sight awaiting him there. “I want this.”

Michael has his mouth open, but doesn’t seem able to speak. James laughs. “Come on, you said you looked things up, and I haven’t, or not yet, so, this is probably a good time for you to help us out…”

Michael swallows. Blinks. The golden bedroom light shimmers through his eyelashes, seeking out all the red highlights. The blond is starting to grow out, in his hair.

“I…you…help. Yes. Um. The—everything I looked at said—the most important thing, the best thing, that I can do for you is—to make you feel good, too. And I want to. To make you happy. And comfortable. All the things I never did when—can you, um, lie down? So I can try something?”

“Of course.” He can’t help stretching, head to toe, at the embrace of the sheets. They’re satiny. Expensive. And he likes the way they feel on his bare skin.

“Oh god,” Michael says, staring.

“What?”

“You—you—I don’t have words. Also, these are green sheets.”

“Yes?” Perhaps Michael’s brain has gone completely offline, faced with James making friends with his bedsheets. “You like green. You said.”

“I...I think I should buy you blue sheets. Blue silk sheets. So that I can watch you like this in them. I think I could watch you forever.”

“I think I wouldn’t complain about that, but weren’t you doing something? Or is talking to me part of making me comfortable?”

“Yes, actually. But…” One of Michael’s hands settles over his hip. The eyes land on James’s cock, and though the hand doesn’t move the sensation’s like being touched anyway. He can feel himself growing harder, under those eyes.

Even the air is thick with want. Heady and powerful and tumultuous as the storm. And he’s never felt safer, or more loved.

“Um,” Michael says, “I’ve never done this before, so, tell me if you don’t like anything, or if you want anything else, all right? Please?”

“What—”

That question ends instantly, as Michael leans forward and licks the tip of James’s very eager cock, and then takes a deep breath and opens his mouth and takes James inside.

“Oh my _god_ ,” James gets out, and Michael pauses and looks up, and James attempts to keep talking and ends up just making encouragingly wordless sounds.

Michael grins. Goes back to what he’s been doing. And clearly he’s a fast learner, and very attentive, because within a very few minutes he’s evidently memorized all the specific motions and rhythms and pressures that make James gasp and moan and writhe against the sheets. And then he does them continuously. Without stopping.

James wants to scream, doesn’t have the air, and settles for tapping Michael’s shoulder, a little desperately.

Michael stops immediately. Sits up. “Was that—”

“Oh, fuck,” James says, helplessly, “you’re wonderful,” and Michael laughs. “I think you mean you are. Seriously, though, that was all right? You did stop me.”

“Yes,” James informs him, “because I’m pretty sure I’m about to have the best orgasm of my life, if you touch me one more time,” and Michael laughs again, relieved, and then grins, suspiciously innocent. “Really…”

“Why are you looking at me like—oh, _wow_ , do that again—no, wait, if you do that again I really am going to—!”

He forgets how to talk, then. Michael swallows, probably involuntarily; gulps air, swallows again, and then strokes his tongue across James’s cock, licking, cleaning, tasting. James whimpers. Out of words.

Michael rests his head against James’s hip, for a few seconds, not looking up; James swallows, too. Finds his voice, at last, through all the fading fireworks. “Ah…you…are you…was that…”

Too much? Too sudden? Equally spectacular? Or not good at all?

Michael does look up, at that. He’s smiling, a small hesitant expression that makes James want to reach for him and hold him forever. “That was…kind of unexpected. But…not bad.”

“Really?”

“Really. I could…we could do that again. I would like to do that again. For you. And you…that was good?”

“That was _fantastic_. You’re fantastic. Can I do something for you?”

“Only if you want to.” Michael slides back up the bed, bringing them face to face; those springtime-pale eyes meet his, intently. James grins. Puts his arms around Michael, because he can, and kisses those still-smiling lips.

He can taste himself, in the kiss, a fact he should’ve thought about beforehand, but it’s not unpleasant. He thinks about oceans, and saltwater, and sunshine, and heat, and then Michael stops being surprisedly tense and kisses him back, and so James thinks about Michael, instead.

“I do want to,” he says, into Michael’s mouth. “I want to…do everything. With you.”

“Everything…” Michael kisses him one more time, lips exploring the line of his throat, his collarbone, his shoulder. The imprint lingers, even after the presence moves away. “Can I try something else? Touching you?”

“You _are_ touching me.”

“I mean…here.” Michael runs a hand over James’s hip. Further back. Pausing just before a certain spot.

Oh. _There_.

He nods, because he does trust Michael, now, this Michael. The one who’s taken care of him, who’s held him when he’s hurt, who’s just given him the best moment of his life, without asking for anything other than whatever James might be willing to give in return.

But he still can’t quite meet those eyes.

“James,” Michael whispers, and then stops. “No. We won’t, not yet, all right? You don’t have to. Don’t say yes if you don’t want this. Ever. You said you would tell me when to stop, remember?”

And, as Michael says those words, James realizes that they’re wrong. Or not right, anyway, if not wrong. He does know that he can ask for everything to stop. He knows that Michael will listen. And he knows something that Michael doesn’t know, namely how very much James wants this, too.

He grins. The world, the evening, gets brighter, suddenly, too. They’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. He can tell.

Michael now looks even more dismayed, as if considering the possibility that he’s pushed James into some sort of traumatic shock. “James…”

“I remember. And I’m not telling you to stop. You said you’d looked some things up. I assume you have something in mind?”

“I…yes…but…are you sure?”

James grins again, rolls over onto his back, and offers, “How do you want me?” and Michael opens his mouth, closes it, and finally murmurs, “If you could see what you look like, right now…” but the tone is pure admiration, and amazement, and desire.

“We could go shopping,” James says happily. “I could buy us a mirror. A very large mirror.”

“Did I say you were perfect, already? You are.” And Michael’s smiling, too, now. So James says, “I am not, and didn’t you have plans for me?” and Michael shakes his head, laughing. “Don’t be impatient. I want this to be good, for you.”

“It will be. It already is.” He watches, curiously, while Michael gets out lube. “That’s kind of an enormous bottle.”

“And you’re not going to complain when we use it all, either.” Michael taps fingers on his hip, over a line of freckles; James squirms in response, because the sensation tickles, and the fingers pause.

“You…I think I could come just watching you. Like this. Smiling at me, in bed. Are you actually ticklish?”

“No…”

Michael trails his fingers over sensitive skin again, playfully threatening, tantalizing.

“No. Not ticklish at all. Not anywhere. Especially not there. Stop that.”

“Yes, you are!” But they’re both laughing now, tangled together in the bed, surrounded by pillows and companionably disheveled sheets. Michael kisses him, all excited lips and tongue and hands, and James licks his own lips afterwards, delightedly.

“Oh, fuck, you’re beautiful,” Michael says, “and I was trying to ask if you could lift your hips. For a second. Well, that, and also I like touching you.”

“Still not, and yes, and yes.” He moves; Michael grabs a pillow, and slides it under him. James reflects on this for a minute. “Leverage?”

“Something like that. Easier, anyway. Just…relax, all right? And let me make you happy?”

“More happy, you mean?” And then he stops talking, because Michael’s hand is drifting along his thigh, and higher.

“Oh…”

“Is that…okay? Me…touching you. There.”

“It…seems to be. You could…um, more. If you want to.”

“I very much want to. James…if you…do you want this?”

“You might have to be a bit more specific, I’m still feeling blissfully happy, sorry…”

“Can I…inside you. More fingers. Can I?”

“Yes.”

A second long finger presses against him, and then a third, very gently. Opening him. Stretching him wider, and then filling him up, entering him, and it’s not a bad feeling, not at all. He’s Michael’s, so very completely, more intimately than he ever has been, and it’s beautiful.

Michael seems to be concentrating. Taking this moment seriously. He’s not quite smiling, watching his own fingers, as they slide and disappear inside James. James, for his part, looks at Michael watching, and finds himself unbelievably, spectacularly, turned on.

He catches his breath, in response to a certain movement; Michael glances up at his face. “All right?”

“Yes—! Can you do that again? Please?”

“There?”

“Ah…a little more…oh. There. _There_ —” And then all the words vanish into white heat and pleasure, and he knows he’s moving, pushing his hips back against Michael’s hand, panting and trembling and desperate, and he can’t even care what he looks like now, he just _needs_.

“Oh, my god,” Michael says, “James,” and the words fall into the air around him, extra shining pieces of ecstasy, caught up in the hurricane.

He can hear his own voice, himself whispering “Please,” and Michael hesitates and whispers back, “Please what, what do you want, what do you want me to do,” and the fingers cease moving inside him and James practically sobs with disappointment.

“James,” Michael murmurs again, and kisses his hip, softly, “can you talk to me? I need you to tell me what you’re asking me to do.”

“You…you…I don’t think I _can_ talk. This…” He waves a hand, limply, drops it back onto the bed; those mint-colored eyes look somewhat, but not fully, relieved by this evidence of life, so James observes, weakly, “I think I appreciate you doing research about this,” and Michael lets out a brief and mostly-amused huff of air. “Good?”

“Very good. Um…you. You should…come here.” He’s figured out what he’s asking for, at this point, with the help of the momentary lull in sensation. More. Closer. Michael’s body against his, so that James can touch him, feel him, everywhere.

“James…”

“ _Please_.”

Michael makes a sound that’s not exactly a laugh, shakes his head. Outside, the thunder purrs and rumbles. James looks up, and captures those eyes with his, and smiles, in the wake of the approval.

“All right,” Michael breathes, into the air. “Yes. How do you…do you want to move, at all? Or be on top? Or—”

“No. Like this. I want you. Now.”

“Now—not yet, all right? Hold on…”

“You want…more, um, lube? I thought you already—”

“I’m not going to hurt you ever. Ever again, I mean. I mean I want to make sure—”

“Hmm.” James pushes himself up on his elbows. “Can I see that?”

“Ah…sure?” Michael hands over the bottle; James contemplates it for a minute, turning it around in his fingers, and then pours a bit out, into his palm. Michael whimpers.

“Really?”

“You…I think I had fantasies that started like this. What—what’re you doing?”

“Learning things.” The liquid’s making his fingers, his hand, slick and wet, gleaming in the golden light of the bedroom. Encouraging him. “You got to play with it, earlier. I’m…experimenting. You did say we needed more, right?”

“I…maybe?”

“So, then…I think you should find out what this feels like, too.” Before he can talk himself out of it, he closes his hand around Michael’s cock, heat and iron under delicate skin, and strokes. Michael attempts to say something, and the words turn into a groan.

James studies that point of contact, not stopping the motion. He’s never thought of himself as having precisely small hands, but Michael is…impressively sized. Maybe both hands, then.

“Oh, god,” Michael says, and shuts his eyes, and then opens them, glinting and dark with arousal. “James, I—you might need to stop unless you want me to—”

“Oh. I do want you. Inside me.” He runs a finger across the tip, curious, and Michael groans again, and a trickle of wetness follows the caress. James kind of wants to taste it, but remembers the presence of all the lube, and mentally sets that idea aside for later.

There will be a later. He’s not giving this up now. Not losing any of this, or Michael, when they’re finally here.

“You did say more. And if I have to stop touching _you_ …what happens if I touch _me_?” He actually hasn’t been expecting that he could be ready for a second round—it’s not been _that_ long, and the first orgasm’s still shivering through his veins—but between that aftermath and the way Michael’s gazing at him and the incredible sensitivity when he runs one hand, the hand that’s just been touching Michael, over his own half-hard cock, every atom of his body lights up with need.

He can _hear_ Michael not breathing, through the song of the rain. And he could be shy, or nervous, thinking about the other times he’s done this, the other times Michael’s watched, but he’s not. He feels powerful, instead. At the center of the universe, when he moves a hand over his own body and Michael makes another interestingly desperate sound.

He’s thinking about Michael inside him, about the need for more slipperiness, and the idea that presents itself, unprompted, astonishes him, but it’s perfect. And he wants to hear Michael breathe his name like that again.

So he spills extra lube across his own fingers. Looks up, smiles, and inquires, in a voice that he barely recognizes as his, far too sensuous and inviting, a part of the night and the heat and the rain, “Was this part of your fantasies, too, about me?” And then presses fingers into himself, that spot, where muscles are already loose and open from Michael’s earlier explorations.

They both gasp, in unison, at the motion. James closes his eyes, for a second, only feeling, not thinking, the tingle of it radiating outward, everywhere, from his core.

He comes back to the sensation of Michael’s hand on his wrist, not hard, not stopping him, but trembling a little. “James—”

“Hi,” James says, breathlessly, “so, if I ask you again if you want to come here—”

And then Michael’s kissing him, and it’s not gentle now, it’s fierce and beautiful and elemental as the thunder, sweeping them both up in the wildness. Teeth nip at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat; that heartbeat, where Michael’s weight comes down on top of him, pounds through them both. Michael tightens his hold on James’s wrist, tugs slightly, growls, “I want to be inside you,” and James, wide-eyed, slips his hand out and away, and he doesn’t have any time to feel empty because Michael’s already there, that hard length nudging inside.

It feels completely right. Everything feels completely right. Like coming home.

Michael sinks all the way in and stops, buried inside him, neither of them moving. One hand comes up to touch James’s cheek, a question. “Are you—”

“—all right? I’m wonderful. You feel wonderful. And very large. But I like it. I like you.”

“You,” Michael says, half-laughing, “you _are_ wonderful, and—large? You like that—this? Seriously?”

“Yes to everything. You can move, you know.” He wiggles, as much as he can, in demonstration; Michael tenses all over.

“If you move—or if I move—this is going to be over very fast…”

“Then we can do it again,” James suggests, and Michael does laugh, now, smiling down at him, and looking as absurdly happy as James himself feels, elated as the rain.

So he lifts one leg and hooks it around those slim hips, pulling Michael a little deeper, and the laughter slides into something deeper as well, intensity and emotion and quick breaths and shuddering thrusts, in and out, and Michael grabs his other leg and lifts that one, too, and the angle is suddenly _right_ and James is gasping, electricity like a deluge of sparks, and if he’s been trying to keep up his side of the rhythm he can’t anymore, can only cling to Michael and quiver on the edge.

Michael slips a hand between them and coils it around James’s aching cock and whispers, “You first, please, come for me,” and James manages to get out, “Together,” and Michael does something with his fingers and the whole world flares searingly bright. The lightning, returning, except it’s bursting through all his veins.

He does feel Michael coming with him, though. He thinks he might feel that moment forever.

Michael’s holding him, head fallen to rest against James’s shoulder, not looking. Each exhale sends a hot puff of air over his bare skin, and they’re both sticky and sweaty, and the rain has gotten louder, pattering away. Once he can move again, James skims hands over Michael’s back, learning the way all those lean and exhausted muscles relax at his presence, in the afterglow.

“James,” Michael says, with what sounds like an effort, and lifts his head, “are you—was that—that was—”

“We…said wonderful already, didn’t we? I think we might need some new words. Better words. Possibly I’m too tired for words, though…”

“ _You_ are?”

“Yes, fair enough…” But he stops talking anyway. Just holds on, and lets himself be held.

Time drifts around them, unhurriedly. Heartbeats calm, and find equilibrium. And Michael kisses him once more, lightly, smiling.

James wants to tell him, then. Has his lips parted, to say those three words. And then hesitates. What if Michael doesn’t believe him? What if saying _I love you_ now, at this moment, could be mistaken for that aftermath, all the heightened emotions? It’s not because of any of those—it’s more profound, more central, more real than that—but Michael might not know he means it.

While he’s failing to sort out what he wants to do, Michael notices the uncertainty. And those eyes take on the familiar expression of concern. “James?”

“Oh…I’m fine. It’s nothing. Really. I’m just happy.” He tries to kiss Michael as reassurance; Michael sighs. “You would…you said you’d tell me. If anything wasn’t right.”

“Everything _is_ right. I promise.” Maybe for the first time.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure. Though…can we shower? Once we can get up, that is. I’m totally comfortable staying here for a while.”

“Oh…” Michael suddenly looks concerned for a different reason. “Um…I should’ve moved earlier, I think…”

“You’re not that heavy.”

“Not that…”

James has to think about that one. “Oh. Do you want to try moving now?”

“We probably should, but…you might be…sore, and I—tell me if this hurts you, when I, um, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He’s not that sore. Possibly a little, from the unaccustomed positions and movements and stretching of muscles, but it’s a good kind of ache. Like fulfillment.

And then he gasps, involuntarily, as Michael lifts himself up and starts to slip out.

Michael freezes in place. “James—?”

“Still fine…it’s not…it doesn’t hurt exactly, it’s just…sensitive, I think…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what? I meant it, by the way, about doing everything again. And when I said shower I also meant together.”

“We’re not doing _anything_ in the shower,” Michael mutters, “not until I’m convinced you’re all right,” but he goes back to moving, cautiously. James, now that the first surprise has passed, is better prepared, though when Michael finally pulls away the rush of emotion startles him with its strength. Relief, yes, the removal of that intrusive presence inside him. But he also wants Michael to come back. Right now.

“Here,” Michael says, and produces tissues from out of thin air, acquired while he’s been pondering his own tired contentment, and then proceeds to start cleaning him, a gesture which makes James dive for the nearest pillows and hide under them, out of mortification.

“What? We’ve just had sex, James, you let me—and I want to, I want to make you feel better, come on, come out of there?” Michael lifts the corner of the closest pillow to peek at him; James says, pathetically, “I don’t know!” and Michael laughs, though there’s an edge of trepidation to the sound. “Seriously, please. You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about.”

“You—I—this is different! You’re…touching me!”

“You like me touching you. You…you do, right?”

“Of course I do…” He emerges, reluctantly, from under the sympathetic fluffiness. Michael’s waiting, and kisses his nose, when that’s within reach. James glares, but without any force behind it. “I do like you touching me, I just…I feel all…sticky. And unattractive. And like I want to shower. And you’ve never—I’ve never, you know I haven’t—you’ve never done this for me, before, you never wanted to—” To his horror, his voice cracks. He stares longingly back at the sanctuary of the pillows, because he can’t look at Michael.

Who mutters something blasphemous under his breath, followed by, “god, I’m an ass,” and then by, “James, I’m so sorry. I did hurt you, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t, you—”

“Not tonight. Before. Every other time. Not just physically, I mean. Can I…what can I say, to help? If I tell you that you’re beautiful, will you believe me?”

“Probably not, no…”

“Well…I’ll say it anyway. You are, you know. Right now. And any other time, but right now…everything you just shared with me…you amaze me. And I can’t believe you’d give me a second chance at all, and you—I’ll show you how much that means to me, how much you mean to me, every day, if you’ll let me. I’ll tell you you’re beautiful every single day if that’ll make any kind of difference, and please say it can, please say I can maybe someday convince you that—I know I can’t make up for everything I’ve done, not all at once, not now, but does that help, at all? For now?”

James stares, forgets about the pillows, and can’t remember any words, either, so settles for nodding, as emphatically as he can, eyes wide.

“Can I kiss you?”

“…yes!”

“Oh, you _can_ talk—”

“You need to kiss me _now_!”

They both end up laughing, this time, collapsed into the welcoming pillows. James runs fingers over all the parts of Michael he can reach, and Michael grins and starts doing the same, and James squeaks in an undignified fashion because he _is_ ticklish, and the bed shakes with amusement, too.

They do make it into the shower, and James doesn’t protest when Michael’s hands find his skin, soap and hot water and those gentle fingers washing all the soreness and stickiness away. He leans into the touch, and smiles up at those eyes, and takes every chance he has to touch Michael, in return.

“Bed,” Michael says, after they run out of hot water and step out onto chilly bathroom tile and James shivers briefly at the change in temperature, and as a result finds himself tucked naked into a mountain of blankets and pillows. “Do you need anything else? Are you still cold?”

“No?”

“You look cold. I can make you coffee. Stay here and let me make you coffee, all right?”

“Um…all right, but you don’t have to—”

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Michael…” He frees a hand from all the overly affectionate blankets, and makes a little beckoning gesture: come here. Michael does, looking apprehensive. “Is there something else you want? Anything?”

“Yes,” James informs him, and reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss. “ _Now_ you can go make me coffee.”

“James—I—you have no idea how happy I am, right now.”

“Oh,” James says, “I might.” And then, because Michael’s still looking at him, and beginning to smile, “Or maybe I will after you make me coffee. I’m pretty sure I saw something pumpkin-spice-flavored, on the counter, and you know how I feel about that, that’s almost as good as sex with you, and you did offer…”

“I did. I’m going. I love y—I love making coffee for you. _Almost_ as good as the sex?”

“It was close, but I think you win. We might have to experiment again, though, for scientific purposes. Do you think they make pumpkin-flavored lube?”

“Thank you for that, and enthusiastically yes, and I’m going to end up looking for that online, later, aren’t I…”

“Yes. Or we are, together. And also I’m kind of hungry. Bring me a cookie?”

And Michael’s laughing again, as he vanishes out the door.

He comes back with a plate containing the final five cookies and a mug with holiday-flavored coffee and James kisses him with the scent of autumn floating through the bedroom, and they try to give each other the last cookie for a while, until James bites it in half and holds the other piece out, smiling. Michael eats it out of his fingers, and then tosses the plate away and pulls James into his arms, and that’s how they fall asleep, amid sugar and sweetness and friendly blankets and warm skin and love.

James wakes up first, but not by much; Michael must be attuned to his smallest movement, or maybe it’s just that they’re still entwined in the middle of the green-sheeted bed, because pale eyes find his almost immediately. The rain’s woken up with them as well, and taps merrily on the walls, on the windowpane, across the world outside, and James says, serenely confident about the accuracy of the statement, “Good morning.”

Michael smiles, at that.

“What?”

“Nothing, really…it _is_ a good morning. You look happy.”

“I am.”

“You are?”

“I just said, didn’t I? Very happy. Extremely happy. Magnificently, supremely, completely—”

“All right, I’m convinced!” But Michael’s laughing, now. And that last trace of doubt has dissipated, chased away by all the emotion and the gleeful consensus of the rain.

“If you aren’t, I can say more things. I don’t mind saying those things. They’re true.” He puts his head on Michael’s shoulder. Lets long arms encircle him, shelter and warmth and coziness, safe from the tempest. Michael smiles again, into his hair.

“I like holding you, you know. We should always wake up like this.”

“No argument here.” He ponders that arrangement for a while. The raindrops play rhythms, on the roof. They’re comfortable, too. “Of course, that’d mean I’d be sleeping here always. Every night. Which we’re doing anyway, so…yes?”

“Yes—wait, James, are you saying—you would want that? To be here—with me—always?”

“Yes?”

“You…want me to ask you to move in with me?”

“Well, only if you want to…” He tries to make it sound lighthearted, but all at once, hearing it phrased that way, he’s nervous. Not about taking the step—he knows he’ll say yes, knows exactly what he wants, and it’s right here, in this bed, right now—but about Michael’s reaction. Michael’d been the one who’d asked him to come over the first time, true, but this is suddenly much larger. Official.

“James,” Michael says, and then, “oh, my god, fuck, yes, I want to, I want you to, please, please move in with me?”

“Well, then, you’re helping me move my bookshelves,” James says back, grinning, and sits up enough to meet those lakewater eyes, as they gaze at him, astonished and full of joy.

“That…is a yes, right?”

“Of course that’s a yes!” The rain cheers for them, applauding the enthusiasm; James listens to it for a minute, and then inquires, “Michael?”

“What?”

“You said once…you told me that you…you said you love me. Is that…”

“Still true?” Michael reaches over. Brushes flyaway hair out of James’s face, and then leaves his fingers there, trailing over a cheekbone, down to his chin, the line of his throat. Gentle, as always, now. “Yes. I haven’t been saying it, I know—I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear that. From me. But if you’re asking—”

“I’m asking.”

“I do. I do love you. And I promise I’ll try to make you happy every day. And I’ll help you with the bookshelves. Anything you want. Was that what you wanted to know?”

“Yes, actually. But…I was more thinking that there’s something I should tell you.”

“You—did I hurt you? Last night? Are you all right? Should I—”

“I’m fine!” James leans in to kiss him, to prove it. Michael does kiss him back, but rather gingerly; James rolls his eyes, buries a hand in Michael’s hair, and redoubles his efforts. Once he thinks that Michael’s been thoroughly persuaded—or at least is sufficiently dazed by lust to cease protesting—he adds, “And last night was terrific. Which you should know; I did tell you repeatedly, at the time.”

“Then…I love you kissing me, too, have I told you that? You taste delicious….Then what was—”

James kisses him again, because he _has_ to, at that self-interruption. Then, from centimeters away, their noses practically touching, says, “Good morning, Michael Fassbender, I love you.”

Michael’s eyes become enormous. Those lips move, shaping James’s name, but no sound makes it out.

“I would’ve told you last night, but we were a bit…preoccupied. And for a while I think I forgot how to talk. And then I was very much tired. But I do love you. You buy me pumpkin-flavored coffee and you do research about how to make me happy in bed and I feel safe with you—I _know_ I’m safe with you—and you like colorful sheets and you make me want to smile, always, every time I look at you. I love you.”

“James…you…”

“Yes, I mean it.”

“I…know you do, I…”

“Are you crying? Come here.”

“I’m not…all right, maybe I am…so’re you. Why are you crying?”

“Because you are!”

“James…” Michael’s holding onto him with every possible limb. Trying to find and connect each atom of skin, as close as they can get, as close as anyone ever can be, and more. The rain’s weeping outside, too. Joyously.

“I do believe you. I do. And I love you, you know I love you, I—just _can’t_ believe it, I never thought you’d say—that you could feel—for _me_ , James, I—”

“You idiot,” James says, through all the tears, “I just said I’d move in with you, of course I love you, I want to live with you, and you’re going to help me make that happen, my bookshelves aren’t going to move themselves…”

“Yes,” Michael says, laughing, crying, kissing him. “Yes. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“You…said I make you happy. In bed.”

“Not only in bed, but yes.”

“Yes, to that, for me, too. But I was asking…if you wanted…I could try to make you happy again now?”

“I think you can succeed at making me happy again now. Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“You remember, earlier…we decided you liked me…telling you to do things? Like taking your clothes off?”

“Oh god yes.”

“Can I…” He licks his lips. He wants this, wants to try this, but the question might be venturing onto dangerous ground; even as comfortable as Michael seems to be, now, accepting of James and love and their sexuality, he might not be ready for a reversal of positions.

But James really does want to know what that’s like. And it might be good for both of them. In so many ways.

“Can you what?” Michael strokes a hand over his hip, down his thigh, back up. “Anything you say, you know that. You can have me however you want.”

“Then…can I…can we try…me being on top?”

The hand stops moving.

“Only once. Just this one time. Just to see if we—I mean, if we enjoy it, that’s fantastic, isn’t it, then we can take turns or something, and if not, if it doesn’t work for you, then we’ll know, and then we don’t have to, we won’t try again, but I do want to know and I thought maybe you’d want to know how it feels and—but if not, I don’t mind, it was just an idea, I only thought—”

“James.” Michael puts a finger over his lips; James stops talking, and remembers to breathe. “Yes.”

“...yes to which part? Trying, or—”

“Yes to trying this. With you. I’m not going to say I’m not nervous. But…you trust me, with this. I can trust you. And…” Michael grins, blushes a little, though his eyes stay serious. “The idea of you doing this, wanting to do this…you telling me what you want…you, um, on top…of me…that’s a _good_ idea.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Michael says, “yes, and I love you.”

James grins back. Walks fingers across Michael’s stomach. Lower. Deliberately. “Yes, then. And I love you. And…legs apart for me, please. Now.”

“Oh, my god,” Michael says, and moves.

And it turns out to be a very good idea. Even when James has to stop, laughing, and inquire as to the whereabouts of the lube. Even though Michael occasionally forgets that he’s not in charge, and has to be reminded, and then mutters heartfelt promises about what he’s going to do to James, next time, in the future. James, still laughing, says, “I’m holding you to that,” and then moves, too, as Michael cries out his name, and they come together, sudden and flawless, in the middle of all that delight.

The rain’s slowed. It trickles lazily along the windows, and fills the world with cool tranquility.

Michael tangles one hand in James’s hair and murmurs, sleepily, “I can make you breakfast…”

“I can help you make breakfast. In a minute, though. You look tired, and I’m happy.”

“ ’M happy, too…if you help, we can make breakfast together. I like that thought. _Good_ thought.”

“I like that thought, too.”

“James?”

“Yes?”

“I like this. I like you. I love you.”

“I know you do,” James says, and puts his head on Michael’s chest, and feels those arms close around him, and listens to that heartbeat, steady through the rain. “And I love you.”


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a few months later, Michael surprises James--and himself--one last time, and there is the happiest of happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end! Thanks to everyone who's been reading this enormous emotional beast--the encouragement is very much appreciated! Chapter heading and overall closing lines from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Poor Song".

Epilogue: _all I see is what’s in front of me/ and that’s you_

Months later. The _First Class_ sequel’s been announced. Michael’s as in demand as ever, if not more so, thanks to the success of _Shame_ and of _Prometheus_ , which despite its flaws makes an astronomical amount of money. He laughs and blushes and sounds genuinely amazed, when the subject of his newfound popularity comes up, and gives humble answers about hard work and not taking anything for granted, and that’s all real honesty, and James flips on all those interviews and watches Michael and smiles.

Rather surprisingly, considering the London weather of late, it’s not raining. But the sky is grey and swirling with clouds. A suggestion of wetness to come, though not yet present in reality.

He’s standing backstage, bundled up against the cold, behind a proliferation of cameras, at the official press conference. They’ve got Matthew and most of the cast back, waiting for their turns in front of the spotlights, to chat about how much they’re looking forward to the film. It’s a quick few minutes, only promotional footage, but he’s having fun nonetheless, getting to see everyone.

Several of them—most notably Kevin, very pointedly—comment on how happy he, and Michael, both look. James smiles and agrees, and so does Michael, but he doesn’t rise to the bait and answer, even though he wants to. He wants everyone to know. Because he is happy. They’re happy. He wants to shout it to the world.

But this isn’t the time or the place, and they haven’t discussed it—the question’s there, of course, hanging in the air—but coming out, now, in public…that’s serious. Life-changing. And they are serious about each other, of course they are. But.

But.

Michael’s on camera, right now. James, who’s not even close to next, and in fact probably ought to be letting someone fix his hair, which is falling into his eyes, sneaks over and lurks behind a bank of concealing lights to eavesdrop.

Michael tolerates the effusive praise for a while—seems to be ubiquitous, these days, everyone adores Michael—and then talks about the cast and the crew, and how excited he was to read the script. They both had been; it’s a great script, emotionally resonant and heartbreakingly beautiful. Michael observes that James is also excited about said script, which might be a slip, but doesn’t matter, because of course they’d’ve discussed it together regardless. So the questions go on.

Near the end, they turn rather personal. Michael’s been talking about the _First Class_ story as a romance, a tragic one, and the interviewer obviously seizes the term as a segue into areas Michael generally doesn’t discuss on-camera.

“Speaking of romance, anyone special in your life right now?”

Michael blinks, laughs, grins, ducks his head. Says, “Well, yes, actually, very special,” and James can feel his heart melting, at the expression when Michael utters the words.

“Really?” The man now looks avidly curious, doubtless because he’s for once gotten an answer to a question about Michael’s personal life. “Can you tell us anything about the lucky girl?”

“Oh, no.” Michael’s still laughing. “I really wish you hadn’t phrased it like that…”

“Why not?”

“I’m going to be in so much trouble as soon as he hears this,” Michael says, and then stops, mouth open, eyes huge.

The interviewer, all but bouncing in his seat with excitement and exclusivity, leans in and inquires, purposefully, “He?”

Michael swallows. Bites his lip. Glances around the studio; James realizes, belatedly, that Michael’s looking for him, and can’t see him behind the towering lights. He should probably move, but he’s in something like a state of shock, and he kind of wants to sit down.

Michael’s inadvertently outed himself, on camera, to the entire world. It’s too late to take it back.

And it’s happened now. Now, when they’ve finally been so good, they’ve been comfortable, they’ve been learning all the undiscovered spaces of each other’s lives for the first time. They _have_ been happy. And now their lives will never be the same.

Michael takes a deep breath. The camera stays, greedily, on his face.

“Yes. He. Can I, ah, make a phone call? A very quick one? Sorry.”

“Of course, go on…” The interviewer is fascinated. Everyone else in the studio, at least everyone James can see from his current spot, stares raptly as Michael pulls out his phone.

It’s not a surprise, when James’s mobile vibrates, in his pocket. It’s inevitable.

“Hi,” Michael says, tentatively. But there’s something else, behind the nervousness. James can hear it in his voice, can feel it in the air. The seconds between the lighting of the fuse, and the flash of dazzling light into the sky. “Are you—I can’t see you, from here, but—are you watching?”

“Yes?”

“So you heard that…”

“Yes?”

“So can I—?”

“Yes,” James says. “Yes. You can.”

“I love you,” Michael says, into the phone, and James says, half-laughing, “Oh, I know,” and then steps out from behind the lights, next to the cameras, and Michael’s eyes go right to him and warm him to the core.

Every other pair of eyes in the studio has landed on him as well. Particularly once they start recognizing that he’s _also_ holding his phone.

Jennifer appears next to him and hisses, “Go on, go out there, what are you waiting for,” and Kevin and two production assistants are on his other side, and someone puts a hand on his back and nudges him into taking another step forward. Kevin says, “James?” and James glances up at him, and, all at once, finds himself grinning. Kevin might be worried, but he’s not. Not at all. Not now.

He looks at Michael. Who’s on his feet, now, and grinning, too. The cameras are still rolling and neither of them gives a damn, and James walks out onto the set. Gathers Michael’s hands into his. Says, ridiculously happy, “Hi.”

“Hi, you.” Simple words. Simple because no words are ever going to be enough for all the emotion, sparkling up under the surface.

“So,” James says, “you decided to proclaim our undying love on camera? During an interview?”

“I suppose I did.” Those changeable eyes are dancing at him, sunlight in winter, and Michael’s running his thumbs over the backs of James’s hands, as if merely holding them will never be enough. “You did say I could.”

“I did.” He licks his lips. “Though you haven’t, technically, yet. Said it. On camera. To me.”

“Oh…really? All right, then. James…” Michael tugs him a bit closer. Half the audience sighs. The other half appears to be holding its breath, while one of the assistant directors hisses at a camera operator, “Are you _crazy_ , don’t cut, I don’t care if we only have ten minutes of air time, we’re not missing this—!”

“I love you. I always have. I always will. You’re the best person I’ve ever known, and the best part of my life. And I know I don’t deserve you—”

“Yes you do! And also I love you!”

“—you’re amazing. And—” Michael doesn’t look around. Doesn’t look at anyone except James. “If you might—I know this isn’t how you’ve pictured this moment, or actually I _don’t_ know, we’ve never talked about it, and I don’t even have a ring for you, but I swear I’ll buy you one, we can go shopping right after this, if you say yes, but I think I have to ask you this right now—”

“You—oh my god.”

Michael gets down on one knee, very carefully. Still holding both of James’s hands; his fingers are slightly cold. Nervous, James thinks. Which is completely understandable. For his own part, he’s not sure his heart’s settled into any proper rhythm, yet. Too excited. He can feel it, thumping away like mad.

“James McAvoy,” Michael says, looking up, looking at him, eyes wide with hope and breathlessness and anticipation, “will you marry me?”

“Oh my god,” James says again, and Michael hastily adds, as if he thinks that James might be waiting for something else, “Please?”

Of course yes.

“Yes,” he says, out loud. “Yes. Michael—you—yes!”

“You will?”

“Yes, I will—yes, I want to marry you—yes to everything. I love you. Come up here.” He squeezes Michael’s hands; Michael gets up, and doesn’t let go.

“Kiss me,” James says, “right now, please,” and Michael does, while the entire audience, cast and crew and cameramen, erupts into applause.

The clouds explode, noisily, overhead. The drops echo, on the roof of the building, beyond a propped-open door. And Michael kisses him again, laughing, unafraid of any storms as long as they’re together, and James kisses him back, and thinks about rainfall, and new lives, and beginnings, and love.

 

 

_well I've been dragged all over the place_   
_I've taken hits that time just don't erase_   
_and baby I can see you've been fucked with too_   
_but that don't mean your loving days are through_   
_'cause people will say all kinds of things_   
_but that don't mean a damn to me_   
_'cause all I see is what's in front of me  
and that's you_


End file.
